In God's Hands
by machievelli
Summary: When the Joker escapes yet again, he's looking for answers, and who else to ask but God? Rating is for mindless and senseless violence, some brief nudity, and maybe slash content. Another Mach and Lord Grise Production!
1. A bug in his ear

The Joker seeks some answers

**A fateful meeting**

The city car cut through the afternoon gloaming. In the rear, Appellate Judge Danial Rumpole read the file he had gotten at Gotham U. A large man, he still had the heavy stocky build of his days on the gridiron. He had used the football scholarship to study law, and spent his years as a public defender, then as an assistant district attorny before he was elected to the bench. While he always claimed to be a hard nosed law and order judge. But secretly he had always been more of a liberal. Where possible, he found technicalities to give shorter sentences.

Now he was facing reelection, and the people of Gotham had gotten even more hard nosed than he had ever pretended to be. Without a cause to bolster his ratings in the polls, he was looking at ending back in the DA's office, or worse yet, private practice. Then out of the blue he'd gotten the letter from Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel, better known as Harley Quinn, the sidekick of the infamous Joker. Her suggestion had sounded so intriguing.

Until he had started reading this file. The woman was a full blown nutcase. The only positive for her was the fact that three weeks previously she had walked up to the door of Arkham asylum, dressed not in her Harlequin Motley, but in a simple dress. Her arrival had been greeted, according to the record, with a full strip and body cavity search. Yet she had only protested the brutality, not the legality of the act.

Once back in her cell, she had requested pen and paper, and written this letter. Actually, they had only allowed her only a tiny golf pencil, but even that stricture had been accepted. After she had handed it over to be read before mailing, she had requested a tape recorder, and recorded note of possible drug regimes that might be of use in the case of the man she had first broken out of Arkham, then associated with for a number of months.

The Joker.

He looked up as the car slowed at the door, and the driver opened his door for him. He climbed out, then jogged up the stairs to meet the Director of the Asylum, Dr. Fitzhugh. He was led to the elevator, and rode up.

"I was surprised you agreed to meet Dr. Quinnzell, Judge Rumpole."

"I understand why." Rumpole commented. "She no doubt knew you would read the letter, and if she were more blatant in her wording, I would have never received it. But when an inmate accuses the police and this Asylum of violating the rights of a citizen, even a criminal, an honest judge must respond."

"I don't see where the accusations came from. Perhaps when you are done, you can explain where they came from?"

"As long as it doesn't violate legal privacy, I will."

The doctor sighed, then slid his passkey, and pushed a coed into the pad beside the door. "I have asked the orderly to deliver tea. You stated a preference for Black tea? Did you want sugar, cream or lemon?"

"Just lemon and sugar, thank you."

He opened the door. "Down the hall, the only lighted cell at the moment. A chair and table has been set up for your use, your honor."

"Thank you." He paced down the hall. He wasn't sure what he expected. A woman hanging from the rafters drooling like a loon. Or maybe a female Hannibal Lector standing and waiting for him to walk into view.

What he got was a woman sitting in a folding chair at a small desk, writing industriously. Her blond hair was up in a bun, her glasses tilted slightly on her pert little nose, ignoring his presence. He sat in the chair, flipping open the file. It was an old ploy, you pretend you are so important; reading your important files so the other person fidgets, or starts to talk. But she kept working silently. He set his pocket watch down, and watched the hands while looking up occasionally. Ten minutes passed, yet she was focused on her work. Finally he closed the file.

"The patient displays an extremely virulent version of the Electra Complex, trying to gain her father figure's affections be committing acts of violence. He costume, unrelieved red and black denotes not only her nihilism, but also her penchant for violence. Like a lot of women who feel oppressed, she fluctuates between penis envy; her penchant for carrying large bore revolvers, and a Castration desire, denoting by her use of heavy objects like hammers to strike those she feels belittle her." Dr. Quinnzell set down her pencil, turning her head to look back over her shoulder. "Am I correct?"

He was surprised. "Yes, an almost direct quote."

"Not surprising. I know Dr. Fitzhugh would not have shown you my file from the facility, so you had to go to Professor Crane over at Gotham U." She stood, turning her chair around, then sat, crossing her legs primly. "If you would not mind, could you stand, your honor?" He did so. "And flex your hands as if you were going to hit someone." He raised his arms slightly, and did as she asked. "I thought so. When you picked up the file, did you notice that your very presence seemed to make Professor Crane nervous? That he seemed caught between flight and freezing in terror?"

He nodded, and she chuckled gently. "It isn't surprising. I observed the professor on his occasional rounds here when I was an intern, then again as an inmate. When I was merely a subordinate, he was condescending almost belittling, but after my first psychotic episode and capture, his manner changed. He became nervous around me. I had proven capable of violent action. You frighten him because no doubt you remind him of the boys in school who routinely beat him up for his lunch money. I frightened him because a woman fighting a man is not fighting for dominance, she is fighting to protect her life. She is more likely to kill intentionally, whereas the man is more likely to commit murder by accident.

"I must admit that part of his animosity to me is because of his publication last year of his 'findings' regarding the Riddler. He claimed he is a sad pathetic man who constantly throws clues at the police to prove he is smarter than they are, something he is in point of fact. He scored very high in the IQ tests he allowed when he was first captured, scoring 160 or above every time. My rebuttal when I was still in my Harley Quinn Persona made the Gotham Psychiatric journal caused the article to be withdrawn. Naturally he was upset."

"So you asked me here for what? To get you released?"

"Oh nothing of the kind, your Honor. I know I have episodes where Harley Quinn rules my life, and for that I know I need treatment. I mentioned abuse, and I meant it. No one arresting me has abused me, if we leave out my return to the facility last month. A strip and full cavity search is normal when you expect the person you are searching might have concealed something you do not wish them to have. But there are not enough female guards assigned to have a full 'legal' search of a woman, so having a group of brutes holding your nude body down while some woman, who obviously thinks this the height of her day when it comes to fun, probes your body would have gotten any evidence thrown out if I were merely in the prison system.

"It was done more to degrade me than to find anything, since I didn't have anything to find." She stood. "I am speaking of the one person who is best known for capturing all of these men and women to put them in here, or back in here as the case may be.

"I am speaking of the Batman in particular, and Arkham Asylum as it stands." She motioned toward the walls as if toward the world outside. "You were probably busy when you were driven here, but have you actually _looked_ at the facility? It's a mansion right out of a Gothic horror story. They should change the name over the entry gate to read 'Castle Frankenstein', and hire a lisping hunchbacked moron named Igor to shamble through the halls."

"That wasn't nice, Doctor Quinnzel." The judge started staring at the man in a guard's uniform who was pushing, of all things, a tea service on a cart.

"I am sorry, Igor. Oh, you have probably not met. Judge Danial Rumpole, this is Igor Piaseki, the evening guard on the woman's side of the facility. Igor, this is Judge Rumpole."

"Charmed." The man was almost as big as the judge himself, and while he looked like a street thug, he spoke like a university professor. There were two pots, and he sniffed one before pouring. "Black tea as requested. I will leave the cart in case you would like more, your Honor. And your favorite Earl Grey, with sugar, lemon and cream, Doc." Unlike the first cup, which was in a bone china cup, the second cup was in a wide bottomed Styrofoam soup cup. "Not supposed to give her anything she can use as a weapon, or to commit suicide." He explained.

He walked over to a rolling drawer, set the cup down, and slid it gently forward. Doctor Quinnzel removed her cup, blew on the liquid, then took a dainty sip. "Perfect as always, Igor, thank you." The guard blushed, pulling the drawer back out, and walked back the way he had come. "He is a treasure. The thing I miss most about this place. He knows exactly how I like my tea, and delivers it flawlessly."

"You were saying?" The judge sipped his own tea. Then added lemon.

"As a visitor, this is a place you go to because you must, but think of it through the eyes of someone who has been committed here. A Gothic monstrosity they should tear down to build a more modern one. It is the stuff of nightmares in stone and glass." She set down her cup on the desk, then did a graceful pirouette. "And the last redesign was obviously by someone who had seen Silence of the Lambs." She picked up her tea. "Honestly, one inch thick Lexan. Thick enough to stop a fifty caliber bullet from a high powered rifle. Sure they have the occasional criminal that might test it's strength, but I am not one of them.

She motioned toward her bed, a stainless steel slab. "They got a deal on old bunks off of scrapped warships for the beds. Anchored to two of the walls so it can't be ripped free, and all of what you have, clothing, female necessities, must fit in that storage area. When you open it to get something out, a timer is activated, and guards will be here when the alarm goes off fifteen seconds later to ask you why you are taking so long. Not that it matters, all of our clothing is supplied by people working in prisons to supply the needs of people in the prisons. So there is no nice frilly lingerie or underwear to choose from.

"On the woman's side you get a proper mattress, sheets, even a book shelf or desk if you ask for it. On the man's side you get the bare walls, and have to beg for anything but a foam rubber pallet. It's a brutal place, and even the walls show it. On their side they are painted that institutional green the inmates call 'broccoli puke', but here I can actually ask for another color. But why bother? No reason to try to make it more homey. It's gilding a dead flower to make it pretty again." She sighed sadly. "Even that drawer so they can pass me my meal trays and this tea. Remember the scene in Silence of the Lambs when Lector passes Clarice Starling a towel? You can't do that here because it will not slide from this side, a hook engages to stop it. Seems one of the inmates was something of a wizard of a chemist, and built a bomb to blow the Lexan wall down, so they redesigned it.

"And for a mental patient it is worse than for a common criminal. A common criminal has a sentence, a measure of time he must endure before being freed. A mental patient is held until the doctor in his or her case judges them, in his opinion, to be ready to reenter society. So what we have here is just a modern day version of the old Oubliette. The name means 'little forgetting'. A place to stick someone you don't want to deal with, where they can just disappear," she made a motion like a stage magician causing a card to appear in his hand, 'and die, and good riddance to them."

She returned to her seat, sipping the tea appreciatively. "Did you know that of all medical science, the Psychiatric and Psychological are the only ones where the doctor's opinion has more weight than the clinical evidence? The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is the American Psychiatric Association's standard reference for psychiatry which includes over 400 different definitions of mental disorders. The International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems is published by the World Health Organization, and it contains a section on psychological and behavioral disorders. But if you compare the two, the checklists used to 'prove' the patient is insane are completely different. So it comes down to the doctor saying, 'I think he is crazy'.

"Have you ever seen the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? A man who pretends to be insane so he can spend his last few months in an asylum rather than prison, then finds that until the doctors say he isn't crazy, he's trapped in that system. It's the same here." She cocked her head. "Funny, I hadn't thought of it before, but the woman who did the probing on me reminds me of Nurse Ratchet, the villain of that piece."

The judge poured another cup, and fixed it the way he liked. "So that explains why you are upset with Arkham. But the Batman? What's the matter with him?"

"She sighed again. "Your Honor, does anyone know who the Batman is? Or is there more than one man running around in the cape and cowl? I wonder what the defense lawyers have not been doing all this time. 'The Batman caught him. And he delivered all this evidence. Did he had a warrant? Did he serve it properly before searching, so we have a proper chain of evidence?'. Or the courts. 'Oh, he's a criminal who wears a costume, he must be crazy'." She shook her head. "By that definition, carried out to the logical extreme, every cop who commits crimes for whatever reason, every uniformed soldier who has been proven to have committed a crime is also a costumed criminal, and should end up here.

"Exactly one of the inmates in this facility is here merely because of special needs, and that is Professor Victor Freeze. Everyone else is 'costume means insane'. By that definition, the Batman should have his own cell.

"Now take my first episode as an example. I am here as an intern, and meet this sad man who hides his pain behind a face disfigured in a chemical vat. We still don't know if the Batman pushed him or whether he fell into it, but let us leave that for conjecture. I begin working with him, and feel I am making some progress when he escapes. I understood why; for the same reason a wolf in the wild will bite through his own leg to escape the trap. He wants, needs to be free.

"Then I see this patient being dragged back through the halls by a hulking brute in a costume, and have him thrown at my feet like a cat delivering a dead rat to it's owner to prove how much he likes them. So I snapped. Rather than have him take another chance at breaking out, and this time ending up in the morgue, I helped him. I assumed the mantle of Harley Quinn. Since the Joker likes to deal with intelligent people, he tends to get nervous when they are around him constantly, so I put on the Mainland accent that everyone thinks of as dumb hicks, and was with him that way, to help him, and bring him back into society.

"My costume which Professor Crane claims to denote nothing but violence is merely a modern form of the Harlequin of the old Commedia Del Arte, The staged plays where the Harlequin is the rascal who is always smarter than the people he deals with. If you ever get a chance, go by the Gotham Renaissance Fair and watch one of their shows. Except for Harlequinno, the characters are all stereotypes of the pompous and greedy, and he always outsmarts them and escapes with all their Scutti."

"But the Batman is a force for good-"

"Oh really, your honor. The Joker was tested _once_ back when he was first captured after his 'accident', and was judged insane then. That has been revisited only here," she pointed at the floor, "at Arkham, and it is always easier to simply say 'no change' than actually work to find out why and correct the problem. If I were to bring a case against the Batman, I would point at the illegal methods used by this 'force for good'. No warrants, illegal searches, beating his opponents into bloody pulp before delivering them to the authorities, no _badge_. Oh he does serve and protect, but it's on his terms. He is a vigilante; judge and jury, and has barely escaped adding executioner to that litany several times from what I have seen here. What if he suddenly decided to go after shoplifters? Illegal parking? _Jaywalkers_? How many other citizens must be harmed before this menace is at least muzzled?

"No one has charged the Batman with brutality. Honestly, if he were a street cop, he would have been up for review within a week of hitting the streets, and fired or imprisoned before he spent a month on the force!"

He looked down at his hands on the desk. Total nutcase or not, she had a point. "So what would you suggest I do?"

"I would bring in a panel of psychologists from across the country. Better yet, ask the World Health Organization to pick the members. Not throw the inmates back to that wolf pack we have here in Gotham. Have them do a case by case determination to see if the prisoner is actually insane or not. If they are, then by all means put them back. But if they are not, allow them to stand trial as the law requires. Give them hope that our legal system is a _legal_ system, and not just a rubber stamp for the Batman to hit them with whenever _he_ thinks they are doing wrong. And to prove it, start where the Batman did in his reign of terror. With the Joker." She looked around nervously. "I just hope I am still alive when you decide. When the press heard I had turned myself in, they were swarming over the cell block like maggots on roadkill. The fact that Poison Ivy and I had a screaming argument before I did was front page news. She will get her revenge."

"I will consider the matter."

She sighed, talking back to the drawer. "Could I get another cup of tea, please?" He shoved in the drawer, poured her tea, then fixed it as she directed. "Shove it slowly, please. Even these wide bottomed soup cups will spill if you do it too fast." He did as instructed, and she took the cup out.

"What you really mean is you will think about it, then ignore it. I know I am asking a great deal, your Honor. You're up for reelection, and the press is already hammering you about lenient sentences. But we're talking about basic human rights here. She touched the lexan, leaning her head against it. "Rights guaranteed by the Constitution, and trampled on by the Batman, and the corrupt forces that would rather say he is right and the Constitution must be wrong if the Batman says so." Give us back our rights, your Honor. Please." She stood away, wiping tears from her eyes. "Good evening, Your Honor. Have a pleasant night."

As he walked away, She smiled. If you don't have glycerin for fake tears, a face full of steam from say a hot cup of tea will fake it just as well...

Harley couldn't wait until she heard the announcement. Having her disappear, apparently kidnapped maybe killed by Poison Ivy would be the last nail in his liberal coffin. Oh she knew there would be a lot of haggling going on before it was set in motion, but now she could make her break. She worked, ignoring the time; she had always been a night owl, and being a patient rather than a doctor had not changed that and felt she had laid enough ground work. She went to that hard 'this is just another punishment' bunk, opened it and took out her shower gear. The guards would search, but there were some things they just would not look into. She closed it, and opened the sack that held her dirty clothes, and especially the used feminine napkin she had stashed there.

Any female guard would have tossed it (Which would have meant using plan B) but 90 percent of the guards were men, and they'd act like they were superman when he found out someone had put a chunk of Kryptonite in his oatmeal. So it was still there. In fact it had stayed there because they would have her take it out, complaining about how women should learn to clean up after themselves.

It was lucky that it was the weekend. Fewer guards. The usual ones were either home boning their wives, or hanging out in bars with clever names like the Dew Drop Inn, or if they thought they were attractive, at one named the Meet Market.

She walked into the bathroom enclosure the women were allowed. The men had to squat or stand in full view of any guard who passed by. But Poison Ivy (Who was admittedly attractive) had protested that whenever she used the facilities, especially when she took a shower, just about every guard would just have to wander down and get an eye full. So the sink, shower and toilet were inline with the last two behind a screen that came up to knee height and ended at the neck so they could tell that yeah, she was in the shower, but they couldn't see anything. The toilet itself had a full screen from floor to neck.

She showered with a bathing cap to keep her hair dry, then brushed her teeth first, because she would so _not_ want to brush them after she had used the tooth glass, (actually tooth Styrofoam cup) for what she had to do with it next. She then went with the towel wrapped around her into the toilet cubicle, and used it, dipping the cup into the tainted water. Then she opened the napkin.

The Seed Red had given her was the size of a full date, and it had been a real pain in the throat to swallow. But since she had swallowed it, and the unlubricated condom they had used to wrap it in less than an hour before she knocked on the door, it had still been too high up in her intestines to be spotted. A good thing they hadn't taken an X-ray; if they had it would have been plan B time again, after she recovered from having them cut her open to get it out, that was. Instead she had let it pass, and taken it out, unwrapped it, and put it in the used napkin. The blood was important, since Ivy had explained that the plant inside it was like a homing missile, and would track it's way back to that person when fully activated.

"Well, here I get my chance to pass through the Alimentary canal." She muttered. She took the seed, and dropped it into the tainted water. It would take several seconds...

The seed cracked open, and a green shoot began probing for the surface. She squawked in alarm, dumping the cup and contents into her toilet then flushed. "Jeez, Red, I could have used a little time to dress!" She ran to the desk. Since she was here, and while a patient still somewhat trusted, she had asked for the files of those patients she knew to review. Since she had been a known associate of Ivy, they had allowed it. Of course they would go over her notes, just to assure themselves she wasn't suggesting they just be released.

She had Ivy's file. A pity they hadn't let her have her own file to review. "Physician, heal thyself!" she whispered. Let's see, it was what eighty, ninety feet down the the sewer line that dumped into the river, about two hundred yard to the river itself if it grew that far. She had to hope the clothes she had left there were still hidden. Sure a guy would pull over to pick up a nude woman hitchhiking, even smelling like a sewer. But only because he would expect to take her home, clean her up, and get her to pay him back in time honored fashion. That would open up an even nastier can of worms. Of course if she ended up hitchhiking, she would be in the mood... She grabbed the plastic gallon sized Ziploc bag stuffing the file in with the other towel and a precious bar of soap and shampoo, because she would definitely not want to use this one when-

There was a rumbling, and emergency alarms began blaring just to add to the confusion. Then with a scream of tortured porcelain, the toilet exploded upward. She saw the vine questing around blindly. She knew from her old science classes in middle school that some vines will recoil, actually move away if struck with a stick. This one? It would probably chase you around the room take the stick away, and return it as a suppository! She zipped the bag shut.

The guard came running. Lomax. Him she would love to see being throttled by Ivy's plant, but he wouldn't risk his life to rescue her. But he was the audience she got. "Stay back! It's Ivy's revenge! It will kill you if you get in the way!" She warbled as if in terror.

The idiot unlocked the Lexan, muscling it aside, and drawing his cattle prod. No simple truncheon for him. Another guard came running. Heath. Aw man, she liked Heath! But he wisely slammed the plate back in place where it automatically locked.

Lomax tapped the vine with the cattle prod, and it jerked away from the electric charge. He grinned, moving forward, and like a rattlesnake it coiled and struck. He shouted as it caught him by the ankle, a shoot coming out to grab the prod from him. Then, as she had mentally predicted, it shoved the cattle prod where the sun don't shine active end first. He danced as it electrocuted him, then dropped the body. She wanted to cheer and do a war dance in celebration, but it would have broken character.

"I don't want to die!" She wailed. The plant turned, again like a snake, then she felt herself wrapped in bonds as strong as steel. It dragged her toward where the toilet had once been, She gave another wail as it went down dragging her with it.

Of course if it had been one of Red's usual plants, it would have merely stopped growing when it reached the cast iron of the pipes themselves, meaning she would be dragged through a hole only about four inches across. But this one had expanded until it shattered the pipes, the bricks surrounding them, and the stone the original septic system had been built into. So it was like being dragged through a tunnel about two feet across, and the vine itself cushioned the impacts as it went down. Then the direction shifted from vertical to horizontal, and she was dragged down, and when she reached the river, it unfolded like a flower, and let her slide out.

"Good plant." She said in her Harley Quinn voice patting it as if it were a dog she knew, then looked back at the Asylum, lit by searchlights, with guards charging around aimlessly. "It's not _nice_ to fool with mother nature guys." She looked around. She was soaked in filth, the still sealed bag in her arms, and had to get far enough away that they wouldn't just sweep down and catch her in the next few minutes. Since she had known she would end up where raw sewage was dumped, she had wisely planted the clothes upstream, and hopefully far enough away that she had time for a quick bath before she dressed.

She looked at the asylum again longingly. "Soon enough, Puddin'. Either the Judge does what I suggested, or I go to plan C." She gave a feral grin. "They definitely won't like plan C. C'mon Snookums. We need to leave before they get out the weed killer."

Forty minutes later, she had lost any good humor she had gained from her escape. Her clothes had been missing, and while the shampoo and soap had been a blessing, the towel was one of those in between sizes, not hand towel or bath towel. So she was striding along the road with her keester hanging out, and if she took a deep breath, she'd be flashing the neighborhood. The only good thing that remained was the plant Snookums, which had decided to follow her. What do you feed to a killer vine? Muggers? Beggars? She heard tires on pavement, and looked back. A Ford F-150 was cruising down the road, and she was caught for a moment in the headlights.

Then it was past. No, it stopped, then backed up headed for the shoulder, and before she could stop it the truck ran over her plant! "Snookums!" She screamed, dropping to her knees, grabbing what might have been it's head, but it came apart in her hands.

She cried silently, hearing some mouth breathing idiot walk up on her. "Hey, little lady. Get dumped out here by your boyfriend?" Not only that, he sounded half in the bag too. He bent over, lifting her chin, and instead of some girl who was woebegone about her situation, he looked into blue eyes blazing with fury. He stepped back, then looked back down the road the way he was going, and the searchlights at the Asylum. He walked to the cab, pulling his Winchester .30-30, jacked the lever as he spun around, but she was right there, her hand wrapped around the stock where the lever would sit, her thumb and fingers blocking it from completing the cycle. Just to be safe, her arm trapped the barrel against her side.

"You. Killed. My Snookums!" She screamed, then kneed him hard enough that his grandfather probably winced. As he fell forward, his hands going to his crotch, he looked up as she brought the rifle back holding it as if the stock was a baseball bat, and swung it. Hard.

Harley looked down at him, then at the bent barrel of the rifle. She took off the towel, wiping the fingerprints off it, then dropped it on the body. "Coup de Grace, Bozo." Then she began to strip off his shirt. That made her feel so much better. The guy was big enough she looked like a little girl wearing her daddy's shirt. She adjusted the seat, put it in gear, and drove toward the lights of Gotham.

**Ivy is not at all Happy**

It was almost two O'clock when Eco-terrorist Poison Ivy, set down the trowel, looking at her plants. Most were just rare specimens from around the world, but some were just ones she loved.

Like the Passiflora Amazoni Isleii seed she had sent with Harley. Ivy's Guardian she had named the species. A very rare passionflower species from near the headwaters of the Amazon. The only variety which had combined the actions of the flower everyone knew, with the attitude of any carnivorous plant. In the wild they would wrap around small animals, the hollow thorns biting in to drain the victim dry, then the remains would be dropped near the roots as fertilizer. More proof that mother nature was starting to fight back. Her kind of plant, even before the modification she had done to make it larger and now deadly to a human sized victim.

People believed she hated mankind, but it was their attitudes she hated. Those who weren't willing to resort to violence, the tree huggers, were always going on about 'saving the planet' when quite honestly the planet would survive anything man did given enough time; the fact that the species had been decimated down to less than one percent surviving eight or nine time proved that. And those beknighted fools had pretty much poisoned the well when they fought successfully to save the Snail Darter, tying up the TVA for decades, only to find the damn thing lived all across the American Southeast!

They also thought she hated men as in the gender specifically, but she had found many uses for them. Taking out the garbage, getting things from those shelves designers always put in that were too damn high, opening pickle jars, and of course moving heavy furniture. But if all else fails, they also made excellent fertilizer if treated right.

But enough of that for tonight.

She walked into the kitchen, poured a cup of her favorite herbal tea, and flopped down on the couch. She looked at the TV guide in the paper... With cable, she had five hundred channels of mostly garbage. Wait, a documentary about the expedition into the upper Ganges, where she had found several plants she used in her work. She turned the TV on, but didn't change the channel because there was a news bulletin.

At first she was ecstatic. Harley had not only gotten into Arkham, but gotten out! Then her mood soured. Ivy was accused of attempted murder, murder, and kidnapping because of all that crap in the papers last month about how she had supposedly vowed revenge on the little white faced clown. A story Harley had come up with on the fly, no doubt to explain the escape Ivy had helped her plan!

"Damn it Harley!" She shouted, then suddenly looked around. She may be a wanted Eco-terrorist, but right now she lived in a brownstone row house with neighbors on both sides. And they never worried about complaining! Besides, if one of them called the police, she'd have to find _another_ place. Even as she thought of that, she heard a tentative knock on the door. Probably Mrs. Ralston from the house on her right. A sweet old biddy, she would complain, but it was like she was afraid you'd get mad if she did, so she would hem and haw so sweetly, with tears just waiting to fall at the first harsh word, and you'd stop doing what was bothering her just to make sure she wouldn't cry.

She sighed, walking to the door, and using the peephole. She may be a wanted Eco-terrorist even the police feared, but only a complete idiot just opened the door in this neighborhood! She looked, and at first seeing Harley's face, wanted to throw open the door and scream at her, neighbors be damned. But a moment later she was unsnapping locks, removing chains, and finally the 2X4 bar to fling the door open in welcome. Harley had brought a gallon of Rainbow Sherbert!

She had first the confection, then a horrible smelling bag thrust into her hands as Harley rushed past screaming, 'Give me a minute, Red! I been walking for blocks and holding it all the way!" She watched the cute little towel covered keester run past, the bathroom door slamming. Bemused, she walked past to the kitchen, dropping the envelope into the kitchen sink, and the frozen goodies in the freezer. As she did that, she was bombarded by Harley talking about her travails; getting sucked down into a sewer line, having Snookums (?) killed by a drunk in a truck, forgetting to steal his wallet for cash when she abandoned the stolen vehicle over near the end of the Mainland El, then having to mug one guy (He deserved it! He pinched my ass!) to get the subway fare, then getting off at the closest subway station (five blocks barefoot! With all those pervs watching me walk!)

The door opened, and the same smell as the envelope billowed out. Harley saw her look. "Sorry, Red, I didn't have enough soap to do a full cleaning job. So I brought your favorite ice cream in apology."

"I thank you for that, Harley. My question, is what is that?" Ivy asked, pointing at the envelope in the sink.

Harley looked, head cocked in speculation. "A Kohler Kitchen Sink, circa 1931, though they made the same basic style up through the 1950s. When you talked to the landlord, he claimed it was Art Deco, which we both know is for furnishings appliances and lighting fixtures, not kitchen build ins."

Ivy looked away, smiling. She talked like a ditz 90% of the time, but Harley was a doctor herself, and could speak like one at the drop of a hat. "No," she lifted the bag enough so that Harley could see it. "I meant _this_?"

Harley grinned. "I told you I could get them to trust me enough to hand me your file. That's the complete one of a kind no copies (Unless Bats has made one) medical record of one Pamela Lillian Iseley, AKA Poison Ivy."

"I am impressed. But who or what, is Snookums?"

"The plant you sent in to break me out? Once I was free, it followed me around like a puppy I once had, so I named him Snookums." Harley sniffled. "And that drunken bozo ran him over! So I beat him with his own rifle, then stole his shirt and his truck!" She sniffed herself. "Red, could I use your tub? I see several good things in my future."

_The Ditz has returned with a vengeance_. "Several good things?"

"Sure! A nice hot tub bath with nice smelling soap, then afterward..." She looked down coyly, but was looking up through her lashes. "maybe I can do a little gardening? Playing in the bush, if you know what I mean."

Ivy smiled. "You'd better not be teasing, Harley."

"Oh but you like me to tease." Harley chirruped. "Join me in the tub?"

"You're on. But I need to do something in the arboretum first." Harley ran upstairs, and Ivy followed more sedately. She stopped at the bottle of Guardian seeds, looking at them pensively. Maybe it was because of the modification to have the plant home in on her DNA, but up until now, all of her plants had been 'one woman' oriented. She took the card marking them, erased her own name for it, and wrote instead:

HARLEY'S SNOOKUMS, then beneath it, Passiflora Amazonis Quinzelli.

So off to take a bath...


	2. On Badluck Road

**On Badluck Road**

When he was a young man, he had consistently wondered about what authors did not have their characters ever do. Going to the bathroom was in there, and more importantly, Batman thought, sitting on the edge of a roof, eating. Alfred had outdone himself before he left. Slow cooked roast beef, cotswold cheese, dijon mustard, on rye. He bit into it, looking over his city. He heard the gentle tone in his earbud. Alfred was out of town for a couple of days, so he'd called in a small favor.

"Batman, there is a 911 call coming in from Arkham." Oracle's soft soprano played compliment to the wind. "From what I've heard so far, Poison Ivy has kidnapped Harley Quinn."

Damn. He was all the way across the city near Arsenal Park where the old Fort Gotham had stood. He stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. "Casualties?"

"One dead so far. Emergency operator has already dispatched patrol cars and ambulances. It looks like her plant got in thru the sewer system."

"Police response?"

"Sheriff's Department is committed to the Death Metal concert at Elysium Field; GCPD has been asked to assist. State Highway Patrol is essentially unavailable; they have no one in meaningful response range. First car - GCPD - won't be there for at least eight minutes."

He considered. It would take at least two minutes to reach the street, and then there was the drive time. Faster to fly. He looked, picked a roof, and fired his line thrower. "On my way. Recall the car, please; I'll fly." So saying, he keyed up the vehicle menu on his heads-up and summoned the Batcopter. "Only one dead - any other cells compromised?"

He could hear the keyboard clicking in the background. "No, only her cell. Very selective. I can respond faster, at least for eyes on. With the Nighthawk?"

He gave a small grin. And they talked about boys and their toys! "You've been itching to fly her since I told you about her. Go on, go ahead."

"You're just saying that because you called for the chopper." She teased. Then the voice became plaintive and wistful. "Wish I could be going in with you."

He winced mentally. He had a modest fortune in play without telling her, trying to find a way to give Barbara Gordon, once Batgirl, back the use of her legs: Wayne Enterprises now had a surgical supply and equipment unit with it's own R+D. One of the main research programs had to do with spinal injuries. But in the meantime, the Joker's bullet had done enough damage to preclude even a powered armor combat suit. He'd given her the money to start her new career as Oracle, top flight IT security consultant, and her company name appeared on Wayne Industries ledgers as a firm paid well for her work. A personal loan at no interest. He owed her too much to worry about it. I wish you were as well.

Aloud he said, "That's Ivy all right. I'll give her that at least, she dislikes unnecessary mess. Headed for the Lexcorp building. ETA on the chopper?"

"Drone in route. Chopper will be at the rendezvous in three minutes. Now, Lexcorp of all buildings... That's not a gentle dig, is it, Bruce?"

"I would never sink so low." Batman replied, though she could hear the smile in his voice.

"Want me to contact Nightwing? He's in Boston."

"No, this isn't a general escape." He flipped up, slewing his wing to catch the heat from the last skyscraper, then drifted to land on the helipad. As he landed sirens began to scream, and lights flashed on, clearly showing him. He ignored it, watching the chopper approach. "Have the Sheriff's department at least begun closing the roads yet?" he asked.

Oracle chuckled. "Negative; they're operating on the midweek schedule as it is. They're redeploying and calling people in, but it's going to be at least twenty minutes."

"So all roads to Gotham are open. Lovely." The Batcopter whispered in and leveled above the helipad, even as Lexcorp Security responded. He reached up as a line dropped down, and his remote control drew him straight up. "Oracle, make a note; Lexcorp has improved their response time again. I'm airborne and en route."

"Well, we're doing them a community service, then. Sending notification of who you are to them as we speak. Want me to give them a well done?"

"Just a elapsed time blind copy to Lex's personal, if you would. Let the security chief sweat it. Good for his blood pressure."

"On the way. Nighthawk eta one minute to onsite."

"Thank you. I'll drop in the rear quad, and proceed on foot. Send me their schedule for tonight, when you can?"

Her tone was 'oh come on, like I need a lot of time'? "Nothing on the road, so far. Arkham is lit up like a Halloween rave. Checking the sewer diagrams, will be over the outflow pipe in thirty seconds. Wait a minute; listening to the actual call rather than the computer warning. Time stamp they reported doesn't match... This can't be right! They took over twenty minutes before anyone called 911? What, were they on a break?" She grumbled. "Small graveyard schedule on the weekend. Seven guards, only two in the women's section... Someone must have awakened Fitzhugh at home before they called."

Batman shook his head as he flew. Two guards to watch over how many? "If their staffing was as low as it often is, the guards on the floor may have been overcome." A thought occurred to him. "Oracle, are there any satellites in position for wide angle pictures?"

"Not American ones. Want me to hack the CIS and Chinese?" She had an eager note in her voice now.

"You make the call. It may be useful to have imagery of the entire area, I'm thinking. But don't risk compromise."

"From the Russians or Chinese? Be real! I eat them for breakfast."

A small grim smile touched his lips for a moment. "I'm passing over Arkham." Below him, he could hear the ululation of the sirens. "No police presence as of yet. Dropping out now." So saying, Batman set the chopper to hover, and dropped to the ground. "On the ground; you can take it for additional eyes now."

"Copy that. All right, I'm into NASA; checking satellites... Chinese - they're watching the west coast. Probably the naval exercise. Wait one - got it, Russian one watching the East Coast. Going to take it just a little out of sync... Got a shot, but it's not much. Old style synthetic aperture array. The smallest definition I can get is meter and a half, within half a mile square. Too big to see people. Checking if they have IR."

"If nothing else, we can use it to check our stealth provisions." He commented.

"No IR; that thing must be from the eighties. Satellite released." Above him the pitch of the rotors changed, and it swung in a slide to the south. "I have the chopper; taking her over the road. Damn... The wildlife is up and running in every direction. Sirens must have only recently been switched on. I've got movement everywhere in the grid. Deer, wolves... there are a couple bears in there too."

Batman switched his cowl over to ultrasonic, looking for the motion detection emissions. "Bears this close to Gotham? Not sure I like that."

"Hey, you don't mess with them, and they don't mess with you." Oracle expanded her holoscreen array to accommodate the new realtime feeds. "By my count I have thirty contacts as large as a man, and except those I know have to be guards, none of them are getting any closer to that noise."

Batman shook his head in disgust. "Their motion sensors have blind zones I could drive an eighteen wheeler thru; they're skimping on their maintenance again. Any movement rates that correlate to human?"

"I would have reported if there were..." Oracle said sweetly. "Drone's over the river; only three contacts there on IR, all of them barge traffic well out from shore. There's one contact about a mile, mile and a half up river. Going in for a better look."

"Copy that. Entering ground floor now." Batman knew he didn't need to remind Barbara about all the rebar that suffused Arkham; radio reception suffered everywhere in Arkham, and several areas were dark, and the wire diagram of the building had them marked.

"Crap, someone is shooting at the copter. Pulling up and back."

"How did they even spot it?" He mentally shrugged, Unless they have a fifty caliber, it won't matter...

"Just saw it occluding the stars, probably. No damage showing. Damn! Batman, some idiot is firing off flares! Contacting the Fire department and forestry services. What we don't need is a fire right now..."

Batman stopped, unbelieving. Firing flares into a forest preserve? I hope Ivy isn't out there, or -"Give me his position, I'll get him."

"Opposite side of the complex, near the edge of the lower parking lot closest to the outflow. Lower lot, you copy? Relative bearing 270. Got him on the camera from the drone, he's opening another eight round box of them."

"Lower lot, I copy. On the way."

As he threaded the corridors across the first floor, Oracle was still giving him information. "Looks like an old M179 Blooper with 40mm Solar Flare grenades. Hope he has to pay for them, they're about ten bucks a pop."

He opened the window. Even if their security system detected it, there were so many other alarms going off, that they might never notice. Using his grapnel, he lifted himself into the air, cutting loose to glide toward the flash of the weapon as it launched another. Batman saw the guard frantically reloading the obsolete weapon. Before he could close it, Batman knocked it from his hand. "You idiot! The forest is tinder dry, and you're launching flares?" He motioned toward where a couple of hot flares had landed, and set fire to brush or grass. "What do you even think you're going to see down there?" As he asked the sirens suddenly died as someone shut them off.

"I can't see to find her without something!" The guard quavered, hand waving toward the forest and the not too distant river.

Batman's glare could have cut him in half. "Unless you plan on burning her out, you won't see anything. IF, on the other hand, Poison Ivy is out there watching you try to burn the forest down..."

The man went pale. "Oh, shit." He stopped trying to pull the weapon back. "I didn't think of that."

Oracle spoke softly. "We have a reporter inbound. Someone covering the concert is headed there at about a hundred miles an hour. With no one on the road to slow him down." She gasped, then whispered. " Oh God... he just wrapped his car around a tree trying to make the turn. Medic six, priority redesignate - "

Batman had little time for this man. He clicked twice in reply to Oracle. "You didn't think at all. The police will be here in three minutes. Coordinate with them. What's your response plan say after this?"

"Check to see if the escapee is visible, maintain station until instructed." The man replied like a kid in his second week of boot camp.

"Think, man! What is next? Your escapee is NOT visible. Now what?"

He pointed, calmed down by the repetition. "When they tell me to, head down to where she broke out." He groaned and grabbed for his radio. "I was supposed to tell them I can't see her! Central, Parking lot one. Escapee is not, I repeat not visible. Instructions?"

"And she's more likely a kidnap victim. Go back inside and report what you've done." He looked down at the box of cartridges. "Pine barrens, driest part of the year, and you add magnesium parachute flares. Oracle, status on fire response?"

"You've got a few more minutes before the police arrive, the first car and first ambulance are rendering assistance to the reporter. Fire engines and ambulances are en route. Told them what to expect. Will guide them to the two small brush fires he did set."

"Copy that. Since I'm now on this side, I'm going inside to the Women's Wing. Which cell did they have her in?"

"Number fourteen - her usual." Another set of displays erupted into being, and Oracle softly cursed. "The guard who did survive said she was screaming when the plant took her out. Their internal monitoring really sucks. I have the cell cameras and the camera in the access hall, but no sound."

Batman pondered as he moved to his chosen entry point. "If Ivy simply wanted her dead, she'd have been plant food right there in the cell. This smells. Do we have names on them?"

"Ivy does like to watch her victims die." Oracle countered as she continued to invade Arkham's security system. "So maybe she wanted to see it. Guards are Lomax and Heath. What's the red flag you have on Lomax? He's the one who's dead, by the way."

"Complaints of use of excessive force when he was with Louisiana Correctional. He routinely carried a shock-stick, instead of a tonfa." Batman's voice was grim.

Oracle found herself on the inmates' side. "Then he probably he got what he was asking for if he liked to use it. Survivor is Heath, Kevin J. He's in the cafeteria right now. But he's not alone."

Batman couldn't argue with her, so he let it drop. "Who's with him?"

"Reviewing video... Guard Sergeant Johm Malcolm. Snagged Heath from the cell block, took him down to the cafeteria, now grilling him pretty hard. Reviewing video, cell fourteen... Lomax entered the cell alone after the plant invaded - yup, he had a shock stick. Heath locked him inside - didn't even attempt to help. Urk - that is not a good way to die..."

Batman eased the utility door open, unsurprised to find exactly the same lock as last time. A darkened hallway greeted him. "The real question ought to be why Lomax had the keys to Harley's cell in the first place. I can't believe the man was stupid enough to attempt rape, or to believe seduction; Harley took him down in three seconds flat last time."

Oracle's voice was flat. "I just reviewed the red flag. I can't believe he had a job there... he entered her cell unaccompanied? He's lucky Harley left him alive. Why was he still working there?"

Batman's voice was equally flat. "One of the reasons Arkham is constantly understaffed is it's reputation. At some point, I think they take anyone with a pulse and no recent record."

"Well, they'll have to find another one now - that stick must be in his chest cavity."

"Any family?" Batman asked as he moved down the hall.

"Sister and parents." Oracle answered promptly.

"No dependents, at least. Call the sergeant off; I want time with Heath to myself alone."

"I've been trying. It's a Chinese fire drill IN Chinese in there. He's got his radio turned off. I've been trying to hack their intercom and PA system." He heard her sarcastic mumbling to herself. "What was it Spock said in that Star Trek episode? Stone knives and bearskins? Maybe they should have stuck with the damn tin cans and string..."

Batman chuckled. "Tin can and strings? I thought they had advanced to voice-pipes and carrier pigeons between floors. They still have the dumbwaiter system in use..."

"Batman, when the last security salesman went there - some time in the previous millennium, apparently - and said 'state of the art', they must've thought he was referring to paintings and told him they had enough already! God, it's antique city in there. 386 computers, 56.6 modem, and DOS... Are you anywhere near the guard station? This would be easier with another wireless modem. All right, I'm in, just don't ask me how. I can get into the PA, but it's not going to be even remotely pretty. I may fry their entire system."

"If I thought that would force them to upgrade, I'd say go ahead; unfortunately, I think they'd be forced to try to do without. Give me a moment." He paused, muttering to himself. "Bruce Wayne needs to become much more involved out here..."

"You know, if the state actually spent tax dollars on this, it would never come up. Hell, my digital watch is more efficient than their entire computer system. As for Mister Wayne, you should talk to him." She was definitely smiling on her end.

He opened an intercom panel, clipped and fast-snapped interfaces, then inserted his own wireless and tucked it out of sight. "Portable hardwired in. Try sideband three."

"Checking... Yeah, that'll give me better access. Somewhat." Oracle murmured, working options. "Still not going to be pretty."

"I can place another closer to the outer walls if that will help -"

As he said it, Oracle's voice boomed from the PA system, distorted and only vaguely human sounding. "Sergeant Malcolm! Stop questioning Heath! Batman wants to talk to him!" Followed by a loud feedback squeal.

Batman shook his head. "Oh, that's subtle..."

Oracles voice was sharp with asperity. "Hell, I would have used the loudspeakers on the copter if it were closer. Better volume too."

"Who dat? Who dat on'na pee-ay?" Someone was shouting ahead in a heavy Cajun accent.

"Likely would've been about as effective." Batman murmured placatingly. In the background, the sergeant was barking into his radio about intruders, but not getting any response. It helps if you turn it on... Batman thought.

Oracle's irritation came through. "Would have been more efficient if I used smoke signals." Then her voice boomed over the PA. "I am the AI of Batman's primary computer; code name, Oracle." Then only in his earpiece, "Wait, I can get into their radio net now." Followed by her voice much softer, on radio, "Batman is on the scene and wishes to question Heath personally."

"Welladay, he can dam' well wait his turn! He ain't got no dam' aw-thor-i-te in heah, tha's th' Die-rec-tor an' our Cap'n!"

"Natural stupidity beats Artificial intelligence every time." Oracle commented.

As Batman approached, he heard another louder voice down the hall. "I couldn't let that damn thing into the facility! It had to be contained!"

Like the iceberg that sank the Titanic, Batman stepped from the shadows into the room. "Indeed. Sergeant Malcolm, why don't you get some coffee."

Malcolm spun, his hand clawing for his tonfa, then dropped his hand as he saw the intruder. "Aw, shit... Howinhell you get ins heah, Bats? An' whatinhell you want wit' Heath?"

"Maybe he wants to ask question rather just telling me what to say and reaming me out!" Heath snapped. "At least the one reaming me will make sense! I'm supposed to die for a sadistic thug who broke procedure?"

"Who was on the PA? Malcolm, have you found out what - " Director Fitzhugh came buslting in before Malcolm could reply. "Batman! Thank Heaven you're here."

Batman motioned to Malcolm. "According to what my... AI recorded from the intercom, and what Officer Heath said, your Sergeant here was just 'informing' Officer Heath what he was going to write on his report."

Fitzhugh stared at Batman, then turned a jaundiced eye on the Sergeant. "Informing him? You mean trying to cover up? Sergeant, either get the coffee as Batman suggested, or clean out your locker."

Malcolm pointed at Heath defiantly. "He locked Lomax in wit' dat thing!"

"Maybe the first question should be; what was Officer Lomax doing inside the cell in the first place?" Batman replied.

Heath fired his own broadside. "He was a thug who thought with his dick! And I know that cattle prod he carried ain't issue, so who the hell allowed him to carry it? Eh, Sergeant?"

Director Fitzhugh interrupted. "This is not finding our patient! Heath, be still! Sergeant, coffee, somewhere else! NOW!" The sergeant grumbled, pulling his belt around angrily, and stormed out. Fitzhugh turned to Batman. "Do you mind if I sit in? Just for the sake of propriety?"

Batman nodded. "Very well. Officer Heath. In your own words: What happened?"

Heath relaxed a little. "I was at the desk outside the ward, monitoring the cameras, when the alarms went off. Lomax was taking the rounds." He looked at the Director apologetically. "Lomax, He had a thing for Dr. Quinnzel."

Batman pressed. "A thing? Infatuation? Admiration? Lust? Not a prison romance, I hope..."

"I don't know; maybe in his own mind. He'd bring things to her - she gets fan mail, you know. Not trying to speak ill of the dead, Director, but if he thought he could get his jollies with her, he'd've disabled the cameras and taken the chance. He's the one who got nude phone pictures of Poison Ivy before we put in the privacy screens; the ones that were sold to L'Affaire in France?" Heath paused. "It was only a romance if saying 'hell no' means 'give me time to wash my hair'. He was always taunting them. Said If they wanted sex before they were released, they could always ask him politely instead of using their hands."

"Mmm. So Lomax had the round, and you were at the guard station. Then what?"

"The camera was out in the hallway - that happens sometimes. I wasn't worried, I still had the feeds for the cells, and I could see Lomax on each one as he went along. The toilet blew, internal security alarm went off for cell fourteen, and I grabbed my billy club, reported to the Sergeant, and ran to see what was happening. I saw the Lexan open, and I saw this big ass plant, so I slammed it shut - I didn't realize he was inside with them."

"So Lomax went in alone? isn't that against procedure?"

"So is making sexual remarks to the patients. Why do you think the sound is almost always out on the women's block if Lomax is on? Hell, that's why the wiring is exposed at the guard station - my kid sister could bollix it up without a problem."

"The sound is always out, not just here but on the men's side as well." Batman replied drily.

Heath looked even more embarrassed. "Well, some of the guards like to taunt the men too. But they aren't stupid enough to try to bend one over."

Batman stood looking at him. "Some of the most dangerous psychotics on the planet, and the guards taunt them?"

"Like a kid tapping the glass on a shark's tank." Heath replied. "Or throwing things at a tiger in a cage."

Batman merely nodded. "Alright, so you closed the door. That IS procedure, I know. Then what?

"Lomax hit it with that rod of his. It took it away, and then - " Heath broke off, looking sick. "He's dead, I know. Right?"

Batman nodded. "Yes. Are you sure Harley didn't do it?"

Heath looked surprised. "The doc wasn't anywhere close." He looked at the table, then began moving the condiments and spices around. He pointed at the pepper shaker, salt and sugar in sequence. "Lomax was here, the doc was over here by the door, the plant here, Lomax between them. It was the plant that did it, I saw it with my own eyes. Then the doc screamed, I think she said she didn't want to die, and it grabbed her and took her straight down the toilet pipe."

Batman frowned. "Was Harley fighting it? Trying to get away?"

"No. Almost like she'd given up. The Sarge told me to go in and check. The plant had reamed out the plumbing like God's own roto rooter, made a hole straight down that was about two feet wide. So the doc and the bag she was holding went whoosh, straight down."

"Bag she was holding?" Batman asked.

"Yeah. She was clutching a big Ziploc bag with I think a file in it."

"What was Harley doing with a file in her cell? And how did she get a Ziploc bag?"

The director cut in. "Doctor Quinnzel was assisting my staff, Batman, albeit only probationary. She has been helping with the backlog on notes, and she does know several of the patients as a counselor. Which file did she have, Heath?"

"I think it was Doctor Isley's. Lomax had gotten it for her about eleven. And as for the baggie, maybe Lomax got it for her. I didn't." He looked at Batman. "That's procedure too. Nothing they can use to store anything or escape."

Batman's frown was deeper. "So either Harley was trying to learn anything she could to help herself against Ivy... or she was working with her. I assume it was a controlled copy?"

"I have no idea. She should only be seeing the redacted ones. I'll be right back." Fitzhugh left.

"Why did you not report Lomax's - excesses?" Batman asked, drawing himself up.

Heath snorted. "To who? The Sarge and Captain are both ex-prison guards from Louisiana, and they think they can do what they want. If I report to the Director, or one of the doctors, they would call me a liar. I did try a few months ago before Dr. Isley escaped, but they decided to have a talk with me after... Seems I could end up locked in a cell with Killer Croc if I didn't keep my lip zipped."

The Director returned, ashen. "That fool brought her the primary copy."

Batman turned sharply. "Harley Quinzell had Ivy's primary file!? Tell me you have a back-up!"

The Director's tone is sour. "Sure. The redacted copy Quinnzel should have been looking at. 90% of the primary is not part of it. I am sure the doctors can put a new one together, but that will take days, maybe weeks."

"And it will not be complete, even then. Computer backup? Microfiche?" Batman tapped his earbud. "Oracle?"

"Checking. We had a solid back up as of... three weeks ago, when Harley turned herself in."

"Copy that." He told the director. "Do you have any faster access to the net, Director?"

It was his turn to snort. "Our most modern computer is my own Pentium one, and I brought that from home. What with the hackers who like to try to get data on our patients, that system is not on the net. Hell, I only have a modem because it is built in, and I don't keep more than appointments on it for that very reason."

"I see. My copy is being sent now. Officer Heath, thank you." Batman turned to Fitzhugh. "Director, I want to see her cell."

Fitzhugh nodded; he had been expecting that. "By all means. Heath will take you. I'll go and download the file onto our patient mainframe."

"Batman? Tell him the file is printing directly to the printer in his office; I bypassed his computer..." Her voice paused a moment. "Ohhh my."

Batman went quiveringly alert. "Oracle, what is it?"

"Sorry - Wizard of Oz moment. We've got so many official snoops outside, it looks like a fire on IR. We got cops and firetrucks, and ambulances... And reporters coming in too. Can't keep track of all of the signatures. Two no, three helicopters, one GCPD, two news. Channel 7 has already got a story out, but not a full one. Just reporting a break out. Wait a minute..." when her voice came back, it was much more businesslike. "Another drone, heavily stealthed. Came in from the south. Got a visual - running comparisons now. No match. Bringing the chopper around to scan."

"Metropolis. Lex is a busy man tonight..." Batman suggested.

"Possible... but I don't think so. Unless he kept a model he didn't tell the government about. Trying to find the frequency." Keys rapped staccato. "No joy, frequency agile communications, and it's broadcasting tight beam... Not Metropolis it's going to. It doesn't know about the Nighthawk. When the circus started, I shifted it back over the ridge. That's the only reason I know it's tight beam - Damn! The drone hit the chopper with a laser burst! Not bad enough to kill it, but bad enough the main multi-spectral camera is fried!"

"Which way is the controlling beam directed? Orbital?"

"No. LOS, south, about twenty kilometers from the angle." More displays blossomed, geographical and cartographical overlaying flat maps. "Nothing out there but an old Air Force base they closed a couple of years ago."

Batman's lips were thin. "We'll check later. Defend our assets as you see fit. I'm going to Harley's cell."

In the cell, Lomax was still laying there. Except for rubble from the plant breaking in, the room was almost pristine.

Oracle's voice was thin and scratchy. "Well scratch one drone. Got it with that little fire and forget model Wayne Industries makes, the Dart?"

Batman grimaced. "Was that really necessary?"

Oracle's voice was calm; operator making report. "In my judgment, yes. It was trying to kill the chopper by ramming the rotor. Whoever it is, they were playing for keeps."

"Copy that." He bent over the still form. Some small punctures, but nothing that would have killed him quickly. Scraps of plant matter under his fingernails that Batman collected. The shock stick was sunk to the grips. "He's not drained... this wasn't one of Ivy's usual killer plants. Will resume contact as soon as I'm out of Ivy's tunnel." He moved over to inspect the hole, straight as an arrow, vanishing into darkness. He dropped a flare down to make sure nothing was waiting, slipped the respirator from his belt, and shifted to echolocation on the small transponder attached to the flare. Then he fired a grapnel line and dropped down to follow it out.

At the end leading into the river, there was nothing but mud which has been disturbed. One pair of foot marks. but scoured over by the water, so you knew someone had been there, but not enough to know who. Only that someone had walked into the river, and then back out, apparently dragging something heavy both ways.

"I think that delay in reporting sealed the deal, Batman. If their timeline is correct, it's been almost an hour. If it was Ivy, she's had plenty of time to be in and out before they even reported."

Batman was studying the drag marks - whatever it was had been heavy, and hard. "I agree. But I don't think this was a kidnapping; I think this was a breakout, with the secondary objective of the files."

There was a pause. "I think you're right, but with me it's the gut. What makes you think it's not a kidnapping?"

"Harley's behavior. If this were a genuine kidnapping, she would've taken the opportunity to leave her cell. instead, she froze, and tried to warn off the guard." Batman rinsed his boots in a pool as he came back to the road. "I'm also beginning to wonder if Ivy was ever here. She would've been compelled to act about the flares."

Oracle's voice was uncertain. "All right... From what I've seen in Harley's file, as long as the Joker isn't part of the mix, she doesn't really like to kill people. But you're right about Ivy - she would have gone postal on that idiot."

Batman motioned as if she were there. "I may be wrong about Quinzell. If she successfully broke with the Harley persona, then her behavior becomes appropriate. But it's too neat. She just happens to be kidnapped at the same time as she has Ivy's file? I don't believe in coincidence."

Oracle smiled in the holo-lit room. "I'd say it was paranoia, Batman, except so many people are out to get you."

Batman was smiling when he replied. "Should I reserve an hour with the Director?" Then he became serious again. "Are there any odd occurrences along Bywater or county road 13? Damn, there's the old fire road as well."

"You mean Badluck road? Checking now..." Displays reformatted, Arkham's architecture banished to memory. "Batman, one of the Sheriff's patrol cars pulled down it to act as a plug. Found a man in the road dead, with a plant of some kind dead with tire tracks over it. report timestamped five minutes ago."

"THAT sounds like Ivy. How far from here?" Batman moved to the middle of the road.

"Less than a kilometer straight line. Right near the edge of the river too. Updating your HUD." In his viewspace, the tiny map grew a ruby pinpoint.

"I have it. Be faster for me to go on foot." So saying, he eased into the brush like a shadow, mindful of what might be present in the cover. "Have the chopper home on me once I'm there. How many officers on-site?"

"Two. I'm way ahead of you; the chopper is already onsite, and I'm listening in..." her voice faded for a minute as batman slipped thru the Pine barrens. "The senior guy sounds like his last name should be Fudd. He's looking for crocs in the brush. Best shout before you get close. Actually, I'd suggest shout, then duck!"

There was only one man on the Sherriff's Dept that answered that description. "Deputy Roy Lawrence. His son is with GCPD; I pulled him out of a building Firefly had lit two years ago. And he lost a partner last year to Killer Croc. Who's his partner?"

"Mayhew. He's trying to calm him down." Her voice was overprinted by what sounded like an M16 on full auto.

Batman froze. "Oracle! Shots fired! What's he firing at?"

"I have no clue - something in the river! Nighthawk shows nothing even remotely near them!"

Batman stopped trying to be silent. He reached the brush near the road and froze.

Oracle's voice was concerned. "I'd stay down. The county Mountie hosed off a full mag, and has reloaded."

"That leaves him one." Batman commented.

"You really think he has only one left?" Oracle's voice made it clear what she thought of that. "Moving the drone tight search over the river; the chopper is overhead. I still have ground radar, so it's a lot better than nothing." Keys chattered. "At least out there I don't have issues accessing their radio frequencies." Then her voice came over his earpiece and the patrol car's radio. "ATTENTION! DO NOT FIRE! BLUE ON BLUE! FRIENDLY IN AREA!" She cursed. "I hope he thinks that's from dispatch."

"No joy."

Batman could hear them without the radio. "That weren't Myrna, Norm... someone's on our freek!"

Deputy Sherriff Norman Mayhew had never seen his partner in such a state. "Ease down, Roy! We don't know who that is! Find out first!"

Oracle voice whispered in the earbud. "Want a call sign he will accept, Batman?"

Batman wasn't inclined to take chances. "Anything that will let me approach without dodging would be appreciated, thank you..."

"All right. THIS IS BATCOMPUTER AI, CODENAME ORACLE. FRIENDLY WILL RESPOND TO APPLE WITH LEADER."

There was a pause, then Mayhew shouted. "Apple!"

Batman spoke firmly, trusting his voice would carry. "Leader. Hold your fire."

Lawrence looked like he was steadying down. "Advance and be recognized!"

"Here." Batman stood slowly. Lawrence looked at him, then past him, eyes never still, but didn't fire. Mayhew breathed a sigh of relief, though he kept his eye on his partner.

"Deputy Lawrence. Deputy Mayhew." Batman greeted them. "Why the live fire, Deputy?"

Lawrence pointed at the body on the ground, then the riiver. "There was something big in the water! It was out off the shore, it left when I shot at it!"

"Did you hit it?" The spotlight on the Batcopter came on and began sweeping the river. In the distance, police sirens started moving. Lawrence nodded convulsively, still scanning the water, then the trees.

"I'm bringing the NightHawk back so I have eyes." Oracle said. "- damn, this is tricky. See anything?"

Batman was shining his own light on the shore. "Yes. I have tracks. Someone in a wetsuit." He turned to the deputies. "Show me the body." When Lawrence kept looking around, he added. Deputy Lawrence, let your partner keep watch; I need you here. Tell me what you saw when you got here?"

Lawrence took a deep breath, lowered the rifle, and passed it to Mayhew, who nodded and accepted it. "When we got here, his blood was already clotting - and it had been disturbed. His rifle was messed up, the barrel - It's been moved!" He started looking around. "I didn't move it - it was right there..."

Batman didn't like the way Lawrence was breathing heavily again. "You knew this man, Lawrence?"

Lawrence didn't reply. He leaned down and snatched up an object from under the brush. "Here it is! Someone beat him to death with his own rifle!"

"I can see that. What I can't see is what you were shooting at. There are officers within half a mile of here further up the ridge - who ought to be rather concerned right now, come to think of it." He noted the barrel, then the way Lawrence was holding it - right where whoever had swung it must have gripped it. "Lawrence. You need to set that rifle down. Look where you're holding it."

Mayhew looked. "Oh crap! Fingerprints, Roy!"

"Lawrence looked down, then dropped the rifle. 'Ah, shit..."

Mayhew shook his head. "You been spooked as hell since we got here, Roy. You had too much coffee?"

Lawrence didn't answer - he just stood, staring at the murder weapon and wiping his fingers on his pants.

Batman's eyes narrowed, as he took in the deputy. "Lawrence, get hold of yourself, man! What's gotten into you?" He shone his light on Lawrence's face, examining the deputy. "Mayhew. Has Lawrence handled anything you haven't, other than the crime scene rifle?"

"No, Batman. We just found the body when we got here a few minutes ago." Mayhew answered promptly.

"Did he go near that plant?" A nasty thought was growing at the back of Batman's mind.

"No closer than I did."

"Batman, seven cars headed for you. Three Gotham PD, four Sheriff. All 'shots fired'."

The sirens were much closer - including one coming straight down the slope. Lawrence spun, and might have gone for his sidearm but for his partner, Mayhew, grabbing Lawrence by the shoulder. "Calm down, Roy! That ain't Killer Croc, they're friendlies! He's not the one who got out, you know that!"

"But who else? Lawrence shouted. "Hanh? Who else got out of that place? Tommy died not a quarter mile from here, an' now Mack's dead too!"

Batman stood close, but not crowding. "Lawrence. no one else got out this time. I've seen the scene. Calm down, you're hyperventilating."

Lawrence closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths. "God, God..." Then his eyes snapped open. " I hit something in the water, I know I did. But it didn't notice; it just kept moving."

Oracle chimed in. "Better warn them, Batman. Four-by-four coming down the slope, ETA less than a minute."

"Vehicles inbound, officers. Lawrence, backup is here. Ease down."

A moment later the first GCPD Suburban came out of the brush and over the ditch like the driver had watched and lived every episode of the old Rat Patrol. Batman's look soured as it came to a stop, brakes screaming, reducing what was left of the plant to paste. The passenger bailed out, looking at the deputies. "Lawrence, Mayhew, you okay? What was the shooting?" He did a double take drawing his sidearm when he saw Batman. "Who the hell is that?"

Mayhew was watching the river, the M-16 lowered. "It's Batman, damn it! Mind the body there, you already messed up the plant!"

"Batman! Damn, I'm sorry! Too many damn capes around here." He holstered the gun, then tapped his shoulder mic. "Central, two-six, on site with the deputies on County 13." He looked at Mayhew, then Lawrence and Batman. "We all good here?"

Oracle spoke over the radio. "I've warned the others to use lights and no sirens. Batman."

"Yes," Mayhew has taken the lead. "Stopped when we saw him." Gesturing at the at body.

"What do you mean, too many capes, Officer Smith?"

The Gotham partrolman motioned back up the road. "We saw another guy up on the ridge. All tall and gangly, short cape. Didn't stick around." Batman looked in the direction the car had come from. Too many capes... and whatever was in the river.

"Mayhew touched his own microphone. "County, two-five. Status green!" He looked at Batman, who was watching them silently. "What?"

"We have the murder weapon in this man's case, but any fingerprints have been accidentally removed." Lawrence looked down, embarrassed.

"Shit, I'm all futzed tonight... maybe there'll still be prints... I only touched the one spot. An' not the trigger. He spun at the sound of movement in the bushes. A black bear ran across in full view of everyone.

Lawrence's pistol wasn't the only one that cleared for action at the sight. Fortunately for the bear, it kept going, and no one fired. After a moment, someone offered "Hey, it's Smokey the bear, man!" and with chuckles, the officers relaxed.

Lawrence was gazing sadly at the body, pinioned in three floodlights. "Poor Mack." Seeing Batman's stare he added. "Mackerel Polanski, his shack's down yonder about two, three miles." He motioned on the road toward Arkham.

"So you did know this man."

"Yeah. Old recluse, lives alone with just half a dozen dogs. He was a Beirut Marine. He didn't like people that much."

Batman looked again at the rifle, picking it up. "This isn't a squirrel gun."

Mayhew chuckled. "He never hunted squirrel, man. Only boar, deer and bear."

Batman merely shrugged. "That what was he doing out here on foot with a hunting rifle?" He checked the body's temperature with his multiband. "Less than an hour dead."

Mayhew shook his head. "Wouldn't have been. Not on foot anyway. Bad leg, survivor of the Barracks in Beirut back in '86. He should have had his truck nearby."

Batman scanned, but he knew it was hopeless; there were too many other vehicles. "It's not here now." He took out the man's wallet, and looked. "Wallet is still here, about a hundred dollars in it. Rules out robbery."

As he spoke, Mayhew came back from his patrol car. "Put out the APB on his F-150. He wouldn't have been here on foot. No way. Can't walk more than a few dozen yards without his cane."

"One hit to the head, hard enough to literally bend the rifle barrel over his head. Wallet still present, with cash." Batman reported. "Oracle, vehicles registered to Mackerel like the fish Polanski, NY license?"

"Got it. Three year old F 150, veteran special woodsland camo pattern paint." A display updated. "APB by Sheriff's department. Gotham PD acknowledging receipt now."

"Good." He stood speaking sub-vocally to Oracle. "This is more Harley's style, not Ivy's. She'd have kissed him and taken him with her, or killed him with another plant."

"True. Did you get samples I can run?"

"Not out here - the main body of the plant has been rather thoroughly run over by multiple vehicles. I have samples from under Lomax's nails. The 4x4 pretty much shredded whatever the plant was. Reporters heading up to Arkham still?"

"Every bit counts..." Oracle said absently. "Nighthawk now over Arkham. More than you might like. Every reporter at the concert, and anyone with a scanner. Way too many for them not to find that end of the scene now. We've also got five different new choppers en route."

"Damnation. Hold one..." Batman raised his voice. "Officers, media inbound to this location." Deputies and police alike cursed and, started organizing the cordon. Batman returned to Oracle. "Any more stealthed?" He picked up the ruined rifle by the lower stock, scanning it. "Scan data on the rifle - sending now."

There was a pause while Oracle coordinated the two-point phased radar composite. "No stealth out there, at least between there and Arkham. All inbounds have transponders from local TV and print media."

"Sheriff's Dept doesn't have the Turkey up yet?" He used the nickname given by the press. A former Navy Sikorsky heavy lift chopper officially designated the Eagle, it was called the Turkey because it spent more time on the ground than in the air.

"No; It's still being repaired from that mess last month. Scan coming back. Hold one. Model 1894 Winchester, corresponds exactly to the death wound; that's the murder weapon, Batman, as if you didn't know it. No fingerprints other than Lawrence's. Odd. They said he took boar with that? It's only a 30.30."

"It's all how good a shot he was." He looked up at Mayhew. "You say he took animals in season with this? Was he that good a shot?"

Mayhew grinned. "No season on boar. He bagged a couple bears over the years getting too close to his dogs. He'd been through enough for his country without us treating him like a thief or lunatic; if he said it was a threat, that was good enough for us, and for the Game Warden. As for how good a shot, if he could see your eye, he could put a bullet in it at 200 yards."

Batman looked at Lawrence. "I'm sorry for your loss, Lawrence. How many years did you know him?"

"Pretty much my whole career; Tommy introduced me to him." Lawrence answered numbly. "Ain't gonna be the same round here nohow now..." he shook himself, and looked up at the sound of helicopter blades. "You better get going, Bats; media will go nuts if they know you're here. Keep us in the loop, eh?"

Batman signaled the Batcopter for the extraction bar. "I'll let you know personally."


	3. Gordon and Rumpole

**Gordon and Rumpole**

"I don't think it is wise, Dan." Martin Compton commented, reading the speech his client had handed to him. "You're not only making enemies of the Police and the Bat himself, but telling the people of Gotham that their hero is as much a lunatic as this Joker fellow." That was a bit of understatement a Brit might be proud of, but Compton knew Rumpole wouldn't respond well to the vigor he really wanted to apply.

"Martin, if he is violating the law, even for a good purpose, it opens us up to Star Chambers and the old Nazi _Nacht_ and _Nebel_. If he's a vigilante, he's violating the law. If he's sanctioned, then he's got issues with search warrants and probable cause." Rumpole was firm in his convictions. "And keeping the Joker locked up as insane without something beyond the rubber stamp of previous doctors is as bad if not worse."

Compton shrugged. "I'm not a lawyer, Dan. I'm only your campaign manager. But you're setting yourself up to have your opponent literally handed the office on a silver platter." Compton's voice was utterly non-judgmental; Rumpole had surprised him before, and he was willing to run with the gag for a bit. "First, Gotham PD has never publicly stated that the Bat is sanctioned."

"One might point at the searchlight with a bat signal on it." Rumpole pointed out with the assurance of the trained jurist he was. "If they are allowing him to run free rather than capturing him in order to benefit from his activities, that could constitute legal complicity."

Compton mentally shrugged and gave him the straight line. "The Bat signal is insurance. You want to portray him as a thug little better than the people he puts away, there's a good number of honest people in this town will probably buy that, especially if we point up his methods. But he has saved this city too many times for the people to just dump him for a lot of legal rhetoric."

"That's why I am asking just for a test case. The Joker is the one everyone remembers best. He's been around since the start; he was the first of Batman's 'Rogue's Gallery' as the press so colorfully puts it." Rumpole leaned back and regarded the ceiling of his office. "But if he is sane, it is monstrous to keep him in a sanitarium; he belongs in Blackgate. The question has been asked; the fact that the person who asked it is herself a patient there, if anything, only underscores the issue. If there's malfeasance, under law, he deserves a fresh determination of his sanity. That, I hope, the people will understand."

Compton sighed. "All right. If we stick to that, I can spin it to sound good. Even those who are against you admit your priorities are bulletproof." He paused to give weight to his next few words. "But if it comes down to you against Batman, you're going to lose."

"If it comes to trial, I will recuse myself." Rumpole replied. "After all, if I lose my bench, there is still the Senatorial race in two years."

Compton chuckled in relief; his Boss still had his eyes on the ball. "Actually a loss for Judge would help you in that. As liberal as the state is." He stood. "All right, Dan, I'll write up a new version of this speech, and have it on your desk tonight. But my advice? Do it as a press release rather than a press conference. If you get up in front of an adversarial press corps, you're toast." He considered. "I can set you up with a couple of reliable reporters for interviews with the proper questions to put your point across - maybe a spot on NPR." He chuckled again. "Even Manson gets a parole hearing every year, even if he's never leaving prison outside of a casket."

"All right, I see it as a normal competency hearing." Rumpole was filling in his law clerks. "With the international committee as the jury." They took notes as he talked. "Before the sessions, the doctors will write questions they want asked, and the ADA will ask them - " He looked up as the door slammed open.

Gotham City Police Commissioner James Gordon did not look at all happy. He motioned toward the door. The clerks wisely fled. The Commissioner slammed down the paper. "I want an explanation of this, your Honor." His tone was acid. He and Rumpole had butted heads for years, ever since it was Captain Gordon and Chief of the Assigned Counsel Program Rumpole.

The judge picked it up. "Really, Gordon, I know you know how to read. But, if you're having trouble with the concepts, if you will just point at the phrases you don't understand..."

"Spare me the sarcasm." Gordon snapped. "You want a special committee to determine if a raving lunatic is sane?" In his soul, Gordon felt a familiar breath of fear fan his anger. There were days when he wondered if men like Rumpole were the minions of some sort of mad villain, stirring trouble to reap political power. The Senate race was only two years away...

Rumpole looked over his glasses at Gordon, knowing it irritated the man to no end. "A lawyer can always call for a motion to controvert, Gordon. When someone is committed, they still have the right to a different opinion." Rumpole waited for Gordon to inhale before finishing his point with perfect timing. "Especially when the doctors in charge of his case have shown such incompetence and instability."

Gordon hated it when Rumpole did that. Knowing he was doing it deliberately made it worse. "Incompetence? Instability?" Oh God, he's going to drag that stupid bitch Quinzell into it...

"Why, according to my findings, four of the psychologists assigned to Arkham have themselves been eventually committed there." Rumpole purred. Gordon was easy, and he made an excellent test audience of sorts. "If the staff is so busy trying to join the patient list, I think we need some new eyes on the situation."

Gordon ground his teeth. The problem was that when it came to Arkham and the staff, insanity seemed to be catching. "And the third paragraph? The police and Batman colluding in illegal searches?"

Rumpole didn't blink. "Commissioner, any first year law student knows you need a properly executed warrant to enter someone's property and collect evidence unless it's in plain sight." He gestured plaintively. "How is this basic constitutional protection even relevant to the Batman? He's no better than a costumed thug - one whom you have permitted to escape time and again.'

"Your Honor, we do not coordinate with the Batman, except thru the searchlight on the roof of Police Central. That is for emergencies threatening the entire city. We also coordinate, under such circumstances, with many other costumed vigilantes." Bet you wouldn't be pulling this crap if we were talking about Superman! Gordon thought bitterly. "As for Batman, he is a concerned citizen who catches criminals in the act, then informs Gotham PD of the location of the crime scenes so we can go in and collect the evidence. When necessary, we get those proper warrants. You know all this."

"From judges who are as much a rubber stamp as those 'doctors' who say the Joker is incurably insane." Rumpole fired back calmly. "Be that as it may, if you are 'coordinating' at all, you are sanctioning him without admitting it: that is almost the dictionary definition of complicity." He smiled in spite of himself, the smile he offered in court when he was about to drop the boom. "If he is sanctioned, then he acts as an officer of the law, and he is required to come forward, take off that mask, and be willing to testify. The same goes for all of those other costumed vigilantes. What is good for the goose, is sauce for the gander."

Gordon growled. "Your Honor, if you issue such a bench warrant, the Gotham City Police Department will make every effort to serve that warrant. Of course the fact that you don't know what name to put on it might cause you to reconsider. You might as well issue a warrant for Lucifer. It's a title, not a name." Gordon let that one lay, to germinate if it could, and selected his next weapon. "However, may I respectfully point out to hizzoner that the media will crucify you for attacking a hero who has saved this city from certain and utter destruction at least three times?" The man wants a Senate seat, surely that'll make him think...

Rumpole mentally ticked that argument off, and went to the next. "Commissioner, thanks to nuisance law suits, I am required to have signs warning of guard dogs at my home. Yet if anyone is bitten, your officers will come out, take that dog, and put him down for doing what he is trained to do. I want you to put a leash on your dog. Or muzzle him. Have him work within the system, or hang up his cowl." He really didn't think that one would gain any traction, but it was worth a try; this was, after all, a test venue.

Gordon snorted. "Not quite, your honor. We might do so if that dog attacked a guest in your home, or a family member - or yourself, for that matter - and a complaint was laid." he smiled thinly and riposted. "But if your guard dog attacked someone attempting to break into your home, or who offered harm to you or yours, then not only we would not do so, I would personally buy the dog a box of biscuits."

Rumpole extended. "So your guard dog is free to roam the streets, biting whom he pleases. What does he get from you beyond your sanction?"

"That is an unfair comparison, your Honor. He does not randomly attack people in the street; he prevents crimes in progress." Gordon parried, and then lunged. "May I remind hizzoner of the last time Killer Croc was loose in this city? That is someone who bites - literally, in Croc's case - whomsoever he pleases. Batman stopped him."

Rumpole came back to guard. "If he cannot work within the system, he is a menace."

Gordon wanted to merely slap him like a machine that wasn't working, but he knew it would do no good. "The Joker is a sadistic, narcissistic mass murderer. That is a menace, your Honor. I am not aware of a single individual Batman has attacked who has not been determined to have been either complicit in violent crime, or actively participating in it."

"If he truly believes in what is right and wrong, let him come to the court house and testify like any other citizen, or like any policeman is required, under law to do!" Like a dagger in the off-hand, Rumpole's voice cut. "Or perhaps he can't. I wonder how many Batman costumes are in special rooms so your own men can gather evidence the law will not let them touch?"

Gordon stood tall, verbally slapping the barbed edge aside. "That is not true, your Honor. You are welcome to inspect any of my precincts at any time."

Rumpole's temper slashed in. "And does that blanket search you have verbally authorized extend to the homes of any officer who is large and strong enough to be the Batman?"

Gordon went for the stop-thrust. "I believe, your Honor, you would have to show probable cause in order to obtain a warrant to search a private home." Then, because his temper was also engaged: " - or perhaps hizzoner would like to put a mask on and take his chances? "

Rumpole became remote. "I am not the Batman. I do not flout the law, sir."

Gordon pressed the line, denying the recovery. "You just suggested that every officer under my command submit to unwarrantable search, sir. I find myself somewhat confused. If hizzoner wishes to issue a warrant for the Batman's arrest, we will faithfully attempt to execute that warrant. We will also accept a warrant to search for any such evidence in our precinct houses. But I will fight you to the Supreme Court before I let good honest policemen be harassed for a grandstand play to help you get reelected!"

Rumpole waved his hand as if to wipe the conversation away, conceding the point. "So give me my committee. Is that too much to ask? Let them decide once and for all if the Joker is truly insane. I will admit publicly that you are right if they say he is."

Gordon glared at him. "Agreed. But I expect a full apology the morning after they give their findings."

**Client Meeting: Gimme that ole time religion**

There are cases that can make or break a lawyer's career. When they announced a new sanity hearing for Joker, everyone who had an even remotely plausible reason to refuse it had done so.

Unfortunately for Joseph Schmoel, he wasn't plugged-in well enough, nor fast enough. He had joined the Assigned Counsel Program Office, better known as the Public Defender's office only that week, and he didn't have the 'half dozen or more' case load of everyone else. He only had two, and both had been reassigned to make it easier on him

_Yeah right_, he thought as he climbed out of his reasonably-new VW Beetle. _They did it so you can go down in glorious flames without dragging others down with you._ He had gotten a list of questions from Judge Rumpole, and while they would be defined as leading the witness in an actual hearing, they could be used in a first interview. For some reason, the Judge seemed to have a hard on for Batman. Of course his own upbringing didn't help. Deep inside, the Other was aware, he knew. Don't remember the Church. He admonished himself. That way lies the return to - messiness and madness of your own...

He'd prepared as best he could. He'd even watched the movie Nuts with Streisand and Dreyfus, and knew immediately that he would have to make sure the Asylum didn't drug his client during the hearing, even though the file (almost two inches of his offenses to date) suggested that he was immune to most psychoactive chemicals. It would be just his luck to have them try something new and be dealing with a sluggish man who couldn't choose between ice cream flavors let alone answer questions.

He straightened his shoulder, finger brushed his hair back out of his face, and walked up the steps into Arkham Asylum. He wasn't sure what he had expected. What he found was a bit like something from Silence of the Lambs with a smiling Joker instead of Anthony Hopkins. A card tables had been set up, facing the Lexan with a chair and water carafe. Joker had his own table and chair, deeply anchored into the smooth cement of his cell floor. He had been given a crayon - bright purple - to write with. Have to transcribe his notes on top of everything else... Schmoel thought wearily.

He waited until Joker looked up from the cartoon he was doing. He leapt to his feet and presented his work like a student in first grade. "Whadd'ya think, teach?" He asked. The cartoon featured a 16 ton weight (from the logo on the side of it) crushing what looked like Batman.

Schmoel flinched, even as the Other snorted at the tactic. "Good - good morning, sir. My name is Joseph Schmoel. For my sins, I have been assigned as your counsel."

Joker cocked his head. "What sins are those?"

The answer threw him off his stride. "Uhm - just an expression, Mr. - ah - how should I call you?"

Joker struck a dramatic pose. "Call me Ishmael!"

"Ah - Yes, Mr. Ishmael. Is that actually your name? It's a bit encumbering to keep writing 'The unknown individual known as the Joker' On everything, and it would regularize your..." He stopped talking under the penetrating stare.

Joker sighed, shaking his head and addressing his ceiling. "Spare me from the bureaucratically literate, please...?" His gaze snapped down. "Call me Joker. All of my friends call me that. All my enemies too." He giggled at his sally.

"Ah - yes, sir." He sat at the card table, a good two feet from the sheet of Lexan, and took out his legal pad and several pencils, then wrote industriously before looking up. "Ah - have you considered having your name legally changed to that? Joseph asked. The question was inane, but the Other wanted to know...

Joker looked at him with an appraising eye. "Do you think it will help my defense? Like Madonna Louise Ciccone using the stage name of Madonna?" He giggled again, imagining Madonna with real warheads strapped to her chest... Nah, she'd never do it.

"Ah, it couldn't hurt..." Actually it would, a great deal, but the words kept coming " - and it would regularize things. There was that fellow in the fifties, they killed him - the Prankster..."

Joker snarled. "That bozo! At least my work had some art and humor to it!" That swiftly, he grinned again, all sign of rage gone as if it had never been. "Damn, I like being clean. So Joker as a stage name." Joker crossed his arms and threw himself on his bed. "I like it!"

"Past tense! That's good!" More notes. "Shows therapy is helping, you see."

Joker snickered. "Therapy, right." He sat, looking at the young man. He put his hands in front of his face, breathing like Darth Vader. "So, my dear apprentice. What do you suggest?"

Joseph shrank back because if Joker had been Darth Vader, the character would have been funny, but also more deadly The Other slid forward in his mind, amused at the play. "Well, I certainly wouldn't do that in front of the Judge! Uhm, perhaps you could dictate an affidavit concerning your treatment here? Or perhaps how the GCPD have treated you in the past? Was it ever your impression that the individual called 'Batman' was always the same person?"

Joker looked down, and smirked at the floor, well aware of the profile he was creating doing so: only his teeth showing... For some reason this man didn't like Batman any better than Joker did. _Well it is the most fun I have had in weeks..._ "There was no way just one man could have kept up with me. Of course there's more than one!"

"Physically? Or mentally?" The Other was intent on this question, and had been ever since Rumpole had dictated it.

"Oh he is much stronger than I am, but mentally I always outclassed him." Joker looked up, his face woebegone. "I never saw but the one, but how can one man cover the entire city?"

"So physically, one man. perhaps with others assisting? Not a number sharing the same costume?"

"Oh but there must have been." Joker turned so the schmuck couldn't see the snarl that crossed his features. There can be only one... He turned, expression back under control. "The GCPD has what, 40,000 officers?

"And what of GCPD's treatment of yourself, ah - sir?"

Joker shrugged dismissively. "Oh GCPD is ruled by the Bat you know. If he says I am a deranged sociopath, who am I to say he's wrong?"

"And your victim count? All fraudulent? " While it was a simple question, it was also a trick question, the Judge had emphasized; the Joker had never denied how many he'd killed. Joe's face became intent - this was the money question...

"I have killed so many, I have lost count. But I have always agreed with the Church of Euthanasia. The problem is, people are not willing to come to God as they should."

Joe goggled, even as the Other sighed in relief and appreciation. "The - Church of - what?"

The joker smiled beatifically. "Euthanasia. They believe in negative population growth for the good of the planet."

Joe struggled with the idea of the Joker having faith. "Ah - I see. They - not we. You have points of difference with them?"

Joker looked astonished that the lawyer would even ask. "Of course! They have to deny murder due to legal constraints. But I am willing to do what must be done!" He shot to his feet and performed an exultant pirouette. "There are too many people on the planet as it is."

Joe was horrified. "So - you believe you are doing humanity a - a service?" The Other was fascinated.

"Oh, almost all of Mankind deserves the Darwin Award for racial stupidity. Anyone who has ever seen a river catching fire knows that." He flopped back on the bed, oblivious to the changes in Joe's body language.

The Other spoke up for a moment. "I see. Are you a communicant of this Church?"

Joker shook his head. "They aren't willing to make the hard choices. I am."

Joe made even more notes as he struggled back into a terrifyingly fragile control. Almost at the bottom of the first page. "Hm. But - but surely your, your therapy has pointed out the inappropriateness of this? You do have an assigned therapist, don't you?"

"Therapy." Joker said it derisively. "Insanity is defined in the dictionary as what society says is wrong. Homosexuality was insanity. Living in sin, that was certainly insanity in the old days - if you didn't have money! Even religions! And look at today!" The Joker pirouetted again, his arms wide to indicate all of Gotham. "Blatant capitalism that destroys the environment! Mankind is treating nature as a constantly renewing resource, like a slot machine that always pays off. But natural history says otherwise. As for an assigned therapist, the one I have right now couldn't make a cheeseburger without a recipe, and if he could he wouldn't eat it because he's vegan! Now that's insanity!" He say down again, morose. he missed his Harley... she made such cute squeaking sounds when he spanked her. "...and the one before him was judged insane as well."

The Other spoke again, curious. "You are referring to Dr. Quinzel?"

The Joker looked up. Something was different in the schmuck's voice... "Poor Doctor Harleen Quinzel. Condemned because she refused to merely rubber stamp my file."

"Mmmm." The Other took a look at Joe's dilemma from the other side. Joe was screaming internally to be relieved of this burden - to get him out of this one. The Joker was one of the bona-fide horrors of Gotham, and he was utterly gone - his conduct screamed it. Doing a good job, and staying within the lines was Joe's job - that was why the Other had created Joseph No Middle Initial Schmoel after all, to handle the mediocrity and tedium, but if he did what he was supposed to do, the Joker would escape, and Joe would be in the spotlight. 'You can shine a turd all you want - but it's still a turd' was how the saying went...

Joker gave the whoever-that-was a brilliant smile. "No worries, my dear - fellow? I can convince the court that I am sane. All you have to do is your job.."

How many court appointed lawyers find themselves helping a monster? The other - Simon, his name was - decided The Hell With It - he'd just have to start over elsewhere... He took off the wire rimmed glasses he wore, put them in his pocket. His voice changed, as if he were thinking hard. "Your problem is you love yourself and your work too much."

The Joker could run with the gag. "So does that lunatic Batman. As many of them as there must be, I must be on his 'to do' list. Their, whatever."

The change in the body language, Joker noted, was profound. Little Joe Schmoel was gone - and whoever this was was not afraid of the Joker at all...

Simon came up to the Lexan, close enough to touch if it hadn't been there. "Do you want to get back to your fun? After all, if you love your work, then it's not work at all..."

Joker smiled at the change. "Of course I must get back to my work. And if we play the judge and committee right, I can do that. Besides, law is all about the moral vacuum, isn't it?"

"We. I like that. Good. Then this is what I need you to do. Be humble. Be penitent. Take their pills and their lectures. Above all, lose that grin and the sarcasm. Their poisons don't really work on you anyway, do they?"

"Their medicines do not affect the dream." Joker snickered. "You really think that will work?"

"No - they never do on anyone who's seen the light. I'll file your paperwork. Oh, and not another word about the Church of Euthanasia - or any Church. It smacks of rationalization, and it doesn't play well. Besides, the CoE is a joke. I can introduce you to a much more legitimate faith."

"I see." Joker caught a small piece of his hair. "So what about my appearance? Hair dye and base makeup? And something other than my favorite purple suit I suppose..."

"Not as much as you might think; It's in your file that your appearance is not artificial. We'll dim things down a bit, but not expunge them - make you look more physically ill, to support the change of hospital. Clothes... we'll cross that bridge when we get there. We need to get you out of here, to start. Just being here is prejudicial to your case."

"Joker clapped delightedly. "Oh I do find I like you, Joe. Perhaps if I need you again, I can have you on retainer? I can pay so much better than the Assigned Counsel Program."

Joe's smile was chilling in it's absolute naturalness. "My name is Simon; Joe is just my beard. We'll see." Like a lighting change in a movie he was back to just little Joe Schmoel. "Do you need anything before I go, sir? Food, or drink? There was a meaningful pause, "Toiletries? Nothing sharp, of course..."

"Oh they supply everything I need. I just need to order it." He looked furtive. "But perhaps some classic comedy? I do so love the old Mad Magazine and National Lampoon of the 70s..."

"Y-yes sir. I'll see what I can do..." Carefully he opened his glasses, putting them back on. As he turned to scurry, away, he winked slyly - and then he was gone. As he walked away, Joker merely shook his head. _And they have _me_ in an asylum_.

**Other options**

On the other side of town, there was another meeting. This one was in the kind of neighborhood bar where you would expect the old men of the borough to gather. The kind where, back in the day, the capo might hold court in a back room to be closer to his neighbors, to hear their troubles, and be available to discuss what services might be desired. The menu had not changed much in fifty years. Martin Compton nodded as Sid, no last name ever asked or given, sat across from the morose political adviser and set his beer down.

"I tell ya, Sid, the Joker is just straight poison. I dunno what the hell Rumpole is thinking..." He sipped his scotch. "The guy could go as far as he wants if he'd just learn the game and quit with the damn nobility thing..."

Sid merely shrugged, and pulled at the mug. "Nobility is like chivalry. It died when monarchy did."

Compton sipped again. "Christ, if I was GCPD, I'd cage the bastard and then pop 'im with a shotgun. No one, and I mean no one, would question it, and I don't mean one shot." He looked with surprise into the empty glass. "Hey Jimmy! Can I get another?"

"Maybe we can do something with that." Sid said, considering. "He gets taken to court, some idealistic citizen blows him away enroute..."

Jimmy dropped off the glass, professionally not looking at either man or hearing what might or might not be being discussed. As he turned, Compton added. "Hey, lemme get the steak and fries, too... yeah, salad, Greek dressing. Sid, you want anything?"

Sid grunted and waved his beer mug. "A dozen tacos with guacamole."

"On my tab, Jimmy. Thanks."

Tacos were so not on the menu, it wasn't funny. But Sid was made, and he'd come back from his bit in Texas with some strange tastes. The House kept the makings just for him. Jimmy nodded and turned away. Compton shook his head. "Be one hell of an enterprising citizen; they'll have him in that monstrosity they like to call an armored car."

Sid merely waved his hand. "So we find some guy who just came back from overseas, trained in IEDs."

Compton considered. "That would work - the 304th National Guard Regiment came back what, three months ago? Yeah..."

"Yeah, and an' we been chatting up Sergeant what's his name, Wilson. Lost his family when Joker sprayed toxins over in Mainland. Green Beret, getting out on a hardship discharge." Sid grinned. "Always got a place for a guy with the touch..."

"Yeah, I heard about that... " Compton shook his head and sipped his scotch.

"So we find a real hardass to blame, pop him after the hit. Make it look like he did it. Like Oswald."

"We don't even have to do that - no reason for a patsy. We do an Afghan-style IED, use, I dunno, mining or Forestry stuff, something local, and just leave it at that. The Feds can chase their tails for years with an entire unit's worth of suspects. No one's gonna care about the freak."

"Ain't that the truth." Sid said, and finished his beer.

"Look, I know the Families got no love for the clown. You think you could make it happen if I got you the route and timing?" He looked up, the conversation dying again as Jimmy came back with a tray. "Hey, thanks, Jimmy."

Sid waited until jimmy had retreated from the room. "Sure, no problem. Hell, if you can find the vehicle ID, we can rig two, one to blow up, the other under it to make sure he's dead."

Jimmy returned with a dozen freshly made tacos. "You want salsa or hot sauce?"

Sid shook his head. "Nah, that bottled crap is for the birds. Fresh habanero, fresh jalapeno, that's the shit. Either hot as hell, or don't bother."

Jimmy grinned at Sid. "I don't got that. But we got fresh ghost peppers for the idiots wanting blazing chicken wings."

"If it's hot, I'll try anything. All right."

Compton looked at the oversized platter. "I dunno where you put all that, Sid." Then he raised his glass. "To our very own Fourth of July - just a few days late."

Joe returned with a small dish in one hand. "Fresh chopped, with the seeds. Got plain yoghurt if you need it. 'Nother beer?"

"Do I look like a wimp to you? Newcastle."

Joe gave him a grim smile, pointing at the dish. "I know you like it hot, but you eat that all an' don't call for yogurt, it'll be on the house. One Newcastle brown, coming up."

Sid looked at the plate possessively. "Best free meal I'll ever have." He dipped a spoon into the peppers, put it on his tongue, chewing reflectively. "Not morugas, but good enough."

Compton motioned toward his own meal. "Meat and potatoes're good enough for me," then poked his fork into the salad, "a-and some greens ta keep ya regular, ha!"

"You are a wuss, Compton. Regular is for the wimps, not for real men. They squeeze it out even if it's iron hard. And if that fails, that's what they make crowbars for." He put half a spoon of peppers in his first taco, and inhaled it. "Bleh." then he delicately salted the second one, and inhaled it as well. "Better."

Compton just grinned, cutting a bite of his steak, then motioned with it like a pointer. "_De gustibus non disputandem est_, my friend."

Sid raised his mug. "And if the Joker is dead, no one will question your client's tastes either, right?"

**A Quick Heads up for Puddin'...**

"Mail call!" The Joker looked from where he lay on his bunk, at the sliding tray and the guard who had slid it in. He sighed, walking across the cell, took the small sheaf of letters, and flipped through them. The one thing about being a totally unknown individual, was you didn't get bill collectors sending dunning notices. But even they would break the monotony. A couple of fan girls, he tossed the letters unread on the bunk. Later when he was even more bored, he would probably read them anyway.

But even though he was insane and loving every minute of it, The Joker had to wonder about the kind of woman who would throw themselves at him. Oh Harley was easy to figure out, she loved him specifically. But what kind of woman would put out a singles ad that said 'Looking for my true love, must have a history of mental disorder and irrational violence'? Yet these, like all the others, wanted him to make them his 'love slave' or allow them to bear their 'love child'. At least Harley was smart enough to use a diaphragm, though using Grape jelly that one time had worried him...

But speak of the Devil, the third was in the juvenile cursive of Harley. They had all been opened, of course. But Harley was actually smart enough that she could come up with ways to circumnavigate what she wished to say.

It ended with 'Hope to see my Puddin' very soon! But could you, you know, shave before then? You can try that warming shave gel I told you about, and my favorite cologne, _Faites de beaux rêves_. I found a new air freshener for you! Autumn Leaves. It not only soothes the nerves, it makes it seem almost quiet around you. Oh, and by the way, your favorite cigars are on special ...'

He wondered how she had known he would be going to court day after tomorrow. He hadn't known until an hour ago. But if she suggested those specific items... He called the guard, asking politely for a requisition form, and filled it out. "Need to look good when I go to court!"

She had never told him how she was able to have things delivered to help him (or her) escape, and she probably never would. Right after she had met the Joker, the good doctor had found out that the head of purchasing, the man who supplied sundries for the staff and inmates, had been getting kickbacks from the local warehouse. So he would order what they wanted, be it copy paper, toner, or in the case of the inmates shaving gear, shampoo cologne et al, and half the difference between the actual price and list price was slid into his hands in the form of gold coins. Being smarter than the average embezzler, he merely put them in a safe deposit box down at the First Bank of Gotham, awaiting his eventual retirement.

But Dr. Quinnzel's 'little episode' had happened before she could report him, and Harley Quinn had seen the perfect way to smuggle in what she wanted as long as it was only used occasionally. She had taken one of the smarter of Joker's minions, and instead of having him do it, had that man point out someone who was smart enough to handle picking out specific items to send when the proper codewords were included, for his own personal kickback. But also not inquisitive enough to take any of them home for himself. After all, if you burned a hole through six floors of a tenement, setting the building on fire in the process, the police would probably notice.

Harley referred to that money as her 'slush fund'. She already had a copy of the key along with the safe deposit box number. If she ever needed the cash, she would 'borrow' some of Ivy's special pollen that made people obey her instructions like mindless zombies, and make her own withdrawal. After all, what could he do? Complain that someone had stolen the money he got from kickbacks?

Joker knew the cologne was named Sweet Dreams in English, not his usual _Caeditie Eos_ idea, but maybe not killing someone was a good idea this time. The cigars were a nice touch, since there was always two real cigars, a smoke bomb, and one thermite one (Along with a small narrow cigar sized lighter) in the pack. He couldn't smoke here, those damn 'smoking in the workplace' or 'weaning them away from nicotine' liberals made sure of that. But if the guard wasn't too bright, maybe he could smoke it on the way to the courthouse.


	4. Let the Circus Begin!

Let the Circus Begin!

Before dawn hundreds had shown up at the gates to Arkham, some protesting that the Joker was even getting a new hearing, others extolling his right to a trial, even some idiot who was obviously at the wrong rally because all his sign said was John 3:16.

The Sheriff's Department and State Police were keeping the roads clear, and after a few minor problems that led to four arrests, and one person being taken to the hospital, they had finally arranged the people with like signs into groups on either side of the gate, leaving the far side of the road to the people who were just watching - and of course, the Media. A State Trooper with a voice that didn't need a bullhorn had already told them that anyone who pushed into the driveway would be arrested, and several paddy wagons were already there waiting.

At 8 AM three police transport vans and six GCPD cars arrived, and the vans parked as close together as they could to block the view of the entrance. It had been suggested that Joker be taken out the employee entrance, but his lawyer had commented that watching him being hustled into a van back there would taint his case. As it was, the GCPD had painted over the numbers usually emblazoned on the roofs of the cars and vans to avoid having a sharp eyed reporter broadcasting that Joker was in van number whatever, then following that specific van, for the same reason, the license plates had been replaced with the placards all new-purchase vehicles got until their DMV plates came in. All three were exactly the same..

Inside, the Joker looked sourly at the suit his lawyer had sent over. The fit was good, if off the rack. But brown? He looked like the average white collar wage slave! The small amount of make up used had made him look sallow rather than pasty faced, and it hid his grin. But to convince a group of psychologists it might work, as long as he didn't get too rambunctious.

He submitted to the simple shackles without complaint; again his lawyer had commented that having him appear on the news in a straitjacket would also taint his case, so the shackles were the compromise. His meds had been suspended the day before yesterday, and his mind felt pleasingly free and easy. _All in all, it just might be my day!_

Batman was standing on the steps just inside the entrance. But first, appearances must be maintained... the Joker thought, and giggled at his own pun.

Batman was impassive. "Congratulations, Joker. New representation, and a sanity hearing? Most impressive."

Joker looked up, then twirled as well as he could in shackles. "Dig the new threads, Bats!"

Batman looked at the suit,. "Mmm. Not really your favorite color, though... but a change is as good as a rest. So are you really trying to get yourself declared sane?"

"Oh you know there's plenty wrong with me. We both know it. But I can convince the panel. I know! Maybe I can get one like Jeremy Levin suggested in Creator! You've seen it, surely? A Freudian, an Ego Psychologist, a Behaviorist, a Reichian, a Jungian, and a Lacanian... who all not only agree that I am insane - " the Joker's voice lowered " - by whatever the modern definition is this week - " and then picked up into his usual manic high tenor. "But they also have to agree on which treatment regimen will be most efficacious!" He snorted in disgust. "If I wanted to torture that lot, I'd put them in a booth at a Denny's, and tell them they can order whatever drink they want, but can't leave the table until they order and eat a meal, and it must be the exact same meal for each of them. Oh, the horror, the horror..."

Batman gave him the satisfaction of a small smile. "Hm. You know, I can just see that..." His eyes never wavered as he watched the Joker. "You know I'll be watching with the utmost attention."

The Joker grinned. "I'd expect nothing less! But remember, the hand is quicker than the Bat!"

Batman assayed a query, wanting to see how well his old adversary was tracking the big picture. "Have you any idea how many capital charges will be levied against you if you succeed? I'm very surprised your counsel hasn't pointed that out."

Joker's grin was just as sardonic. "I found someone who really believes, Batman. And you know what they say about believers. They're the easiest to fool!" He spun again, and did a credible Three Stooges slip-and-recover, even in the shackles. "And as for the actual trial, what's the old saying? All you have to do is convince 12 people too stupid to duck jury duty?"

Batman's eyes narrowed. Joker didn't care about that a bit... Because he doesn't think he'll ever have to deal with it. "Did you, now...? Your counsel?"

"I like him! That's why I'm wearing this godawful suit and make up that makes me look pale instead of striking..." Joker looked solemn for a moment, radiating sincerity. "Not to mention no meds. Can't be stoned for my competency hearing!"

"No meds...?" I need to push him off center a bit, get him to slip... "Hm. No, no, this is too obvious for you, Joker."

"Ah, Batsy, like I said, a good stage magician can fool the eye. But the only eye I really need to fool is yours..!" The Joker chuckled like an avuncular uncle - it was nothing like his usual laugh. "See? I am sane, don't you agree?"

Batman hated fighting blind like this. "What's the real gag? I know Harley broke out of here with Ivy's assistance."

Joker became imperturbable, giving a perfect impression of Harvey Dent in his glory days. "Perhaps. But if you has said that on camera, I could have demanded a retraction. The last news I heard, Ivy was her kidnapper. So as for your opinion..." the joker's face became spiteful. "Why don't you prove it!"

That settles that, at least...

"Joker, I don't say this often: you defy definition. You are yourself, exclusive of any other." The Joker cocked his head in astonishment at the complement. "But I never thought I'd see the day you'd wear dull brown and be predictable."

The Joker gave him a smile, as if letting Batman share the joke. "But right now predictable is the way to go, didn't you know that? If I act like myself, I'd never get out of here legally." The guard nudged him from behind, and the Joker gave Batman a 'what can we do?' look. "Well, I must run. Let's do lunch."

Batman could have slugged the guard for interrupting. "Arkham's famous meatloaf? I'd rather not. Blackgate's spaghetti and meat sauce isn't much better, though." He turned to go.

The Joker couldn't resist. "At Luigi's. Downtown? I'm in the mood for lasagna. With garlic bread!"

Batman stopped dead and an eyebrow rose. If he made a date like that, he just might keep it. "When?"

The Joker giggled. "Right after they decide I am sane, of course. I am sure I can get a work furlough, or an escorted dinner out."

"We'll see." Batman dropped a small smoke bomb. When it cleared, he was gone.

Joker coughed. "Talk about predictability... People come and go so quickly around here." He looked back at the guard. "Come, Sancho! Our mule awaits!"

Batman hadn't needed the smoke pellet to cover his movement, though that was probably what the guard would think. The smoke was a chemical tracker, one that interacted with the Joker's unique chemistry. On anyone else, it would fade in moments, but on him it left a clearly detectable trace that would last for hours. "Oracle, status of the GPS beacons on the vans?"

In preparation for the day's requirements, Oracle had the DayHawk up. It was the same design as the NightHawk, but painted the haze gray developed for low visibility for US Air Force jets and drones. It was already orbiting at 5,000 feet.

"Tracking clear signals on all three. Also have the usual muddle when you use a chemical tracker..." Oracle sighed. "It's not firming up yet. I won't be able to tell which one they have him on until they roll."

Batman looked at the zoo outside the gates sourly. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I wonder what Clark is doing right now... Or, God help me, Barry."

"I can call them and check." Oracle replied. Lightly, teasing him.

"No." His answer was a little too abrupt.

Oracle's voice was saccharine sweet. "So it's still your circus, and still your monkeys, right?"

"They have their own work, and their own issues..." Batman answered, acknowledging the touch. "I just hate waiting for the train wreck. You have the likeliest points for something to happen?"

Oracle already had detail maps open in her workspace. "Yes. The first one is, no surprise, the gates themselves; I can't see anything happening there with all the LEOs there, though." Oracle switched views for a moment. "Batcopter is back onsite as well; road scan is complete." The Batcopter was in daylight flight mode, it's normal ebon modified to a close approximation of the same color as the Dayhawk. We need to get that polymimetic paint applied to the 'hawks as well... "No men hidden in the trees, at least not as of four minutes ago. Badluck Road is clear as well, to one mile of the intersection." Oracle glanced at the routes the vans would be taking. "Next after that depends on which van; they separate at the cross. Choke points are when they each cross the River - the bridges on both ends, and the tunnel on both ends." The feed from the Dayhawk queeped and a figure highlighted. "Batman, I think I've a sighting on Harley in the crowd."

"WHAT? Where? Outside the gates?" As he asked the vans started up, and one by one, each van picked up it's outriders as they began to roll.

Oracle let the vans go to secondary screens for the moment. "That big crowd of lookie-loos right across the road. Not any of the picketers. Towards the back. The woman in the trench coat with the big floppy hat? The wind is enough to see red and black leggings - and I have bells under the hat."

Batman launched a grapnel, going for the roof and a better angle. "Scanning. I have her. Can't make out the face from this angle.'

"Neither can I" Oracle's voice was clipped as she brought the Batcopter around. "She's moving through toward the front."

Batman's voice was grim. "Pass the word to the deputies."

"On it." As she said it the crowd surged forward on both sides, shoving the deputies back as the first van began to clear the gate. "They're busy!"

Batman leaped, gliding toward the gate. "I see it. I'm moving in."

The vehicles turned in sequence, figleafing the view from his location. The Dayhawk was above and behind him, staying with the convoy. As the third van made the turn, the woman turned and ran toward the parked cars off to the side. "She's bolting!"

Batman grimaced. He had intended to glide over the crowd to get a look at her face, but with the woman now running toward the cars... "She saw me. At least she's not on the convoy now..." He overflew the crowd, waited for her to settle down on one car so he could grapnel it and beat her there.

The hat fell off, revealing the distictive headgear. Batman fired a grapnel into the ground in front of the fleeing woman, tripping her, and let it pull him into the tuck and roll that brought him up and ready just behind her. "Oracle, stay with the vehicles. This can't be all of it."

Oracle acknowledged. "I'm on it." In the background, keys rattled machine-gun quickly as she reassigned her assets.

Batman stalked forward, grabbed the woman's arm arm, and flipped her over, fist cocked. At this distance, something was off. The coat made it hard to tell...

The woman was definitely not Harley. She had the makeup down pat, but the face underneath was more sharply contoured. When she saw Batman, she grinned, and reached for her waist. He pinned her arms.

She pouted. "C'mon, Bats! I flashed my tits at the Joker, and thought you might like a look too?"

Batman growled. "You stupid - " he patted her waist down. Nothing under the costume but her. "Have you any idea what he would do to you? Or what the real Harley would do if she found out?"

She looks at him defiantly. "But I'd be remembered! And it would be worth it to do him!" She grinned somewhat maniacally, and lunged ineffectively. "Or you, for that matter..."

"He's killed dozens." He looked back. Reporters had seen him take her down, and were now charging toward the scene. He stood, looming over her. "Go home." Then he ran and dove over the side of the ridge, gliding as he called in the chopper. "This fanbase of his is getting worse."

Oracle had her own problems. "Batman. The chemical tracker. It's fading!"

Batman began cursing as he caught the grab bar from the chopper and was reeled in. "Explain?"

On Oracle's screen, the three vans are doing a quick shell game as they through the more heavily wooded areas. "It's like... like something is making it inert."

Batman strapped in. "I have the chopper. The transports are hermetically sealed - that would account for it."

"No, I had it for a full minute after they left the yard, it firmed up just as I expected. No joy on it now." Then she cursed. "Now their GPS beacons just turned off."

"Damnation. Maintain watch; even if he bathes in that wretched cologne he favors, it'll come back as soon as he gets excited." As he spoke, Batman piloted the chopper alongside the convoy. The shell game was still going on. "I have three identical vans now." He called up the multi-spectral imager as he overflew the convoy, looking for drivers. "Which driver had him at the gates?" As they came to the first turnoff, one set departed. But all he was getting was blank windows. "Looks like GCPD finally sprang for Lex's active polarizing system. I can't get an image."

"Running back over the footage. Lopez. I can't see the drivers from here either." Now the second set departed the main road. Knowing the media circus they had, GCPD had each van and their escorts taking different routes, all arriving at the Courthouse a few minutes apart, and going into the underground parking lot where the police could keep reporters and the local looney tunes out. One would go by each of the two main bridges, the third in the center by the tunnel from Mainland.

"Stay with the first with the Dayhawk, tag it if you have to. I'll stay with the other two. Is the Nighthawk done with it's turnaround?" He shook his head. "Multi-spectral can't penetrate on any wavelength it has."

Oracle launched the Nighthawk, setting it for high speed to get there fast. "Nighthawk en route. You know it's going to be as obvious as a whore in church during the day. We need to get them painted in the same stuff you have on the chopper." She glanced at her event map. "Second choke point now cleared; from here they all have divergent routes. Designating transports Carriers one, two, and three. GCPD has cleared the tunnel of traffic to facilitate passage, but not the bridges."

"Copy that." On his screen the dedicated frequency agile transponder showed the Nighthawk racing in. "I'm going for altitude, trying to keep two and three in sight simultaneously. Tell me you have the tunnel."

"I have the tunnel. Currently have the 14th street bridge as well."

"Just to be sure, I'm going to plant trackers on them starting with Carrier one." The copter stooped like a hawk. Batman's eyes narrowed as a small gun turret came up through a panel on the van he was following as he approached.

"We'll monitor Carrier one in the tunnel on the cameras while I keep Carrier two with the DayHawk." Oracle said, as she reassigned workscreens. Suddenly the turret began firing paintballs at the Batcopter.

Batman evaded as he closed. "Carrier one has deployed it's own marker turret." He raced past it, the small marker gun firing just once. The tracker imbedded itself in the rear door. "Carrier one now on sideband six."

As they reached the built up areas, it became more hectic. Carrier two turned toward the 14th street bridge, and Batman traded speed for altitude as he prepared to pick up Carrier three. "You have one on the tunnel cameras?"

"Five by. I've assigned the NightHawk to Carrier three, will pick it up in-. Shit! It ate a missile! Another stealth drone. This one is armed!" Oracle watched the rakish drone drop back down. They'd been flying it low so it wouldn't be noticed from above. The Nighthawk, also flying low, had flown right into an ambush!

Batman didn't bother with his radar, but selected ultra-violet lidar and reduced the intensity to spare witnesses eyes and to reduce far-range clutter. The multi-specrtral flashed, invisible to the naked eye. "I have a drone low and at my eleven. Not one of ours."

Oracle's voice was grim. "That's him. It must have either just launched from under the overpass, or it has hover capability and was waiting in the underbrush for us to pass. Someone doesn't like losing."

"Getting good imagery on it, at least... That's not one of Lex's."

"Or one of Wayne Industries... Wait one... got it; ninety-three percent match to a prototype built by Carlyle Aviation. They're calling it the Crone. They only built three of them for the trials, though, and they were unarmed." Keys rattled, and Oracle glanced at a column of text scrolling at a speed few could follow. "They lost to Lexcorp for the new Army surveillance drone contract, and are now pursuing NATO contracts. Still have Carrier three on camera in the tunnel, but it will be out in less than two minutes. Want me to take them down?"

Batman watched the Crone climbing for altitude. "I think they had the same idea. Coming at you. I'm on it." He went for more altitude, trying to target the Crone. He flipped through the weapons menu, and selected direct fire. "Same communications scheme as last time, Oracle?"

As Batman watched, a small missile dropped from the belly of the stealthed aircraft and launched. The Dayhawk evaded successfully, and the missile was lost to sight as it flew out across Gotham. "Who the hell are these guys!" Tap of keyboard. "Yeah, but this one is using an American military communications satellite for signals."

Batman came about on an attack vector. Flaming idiots. That missile has to come down somewhere! "Track them back; use the JL sats."

"As soon as I scrape this burr out of my fur. Let's see how they like it in the weeds!" She fire walled the throttle on her bird, tapping the control that made the swing wing fold in to give her more room, the engine whining into a higher pitch. The Dayhawk dived, and to his amazement, followed transport three into the tunnel. The Crone arched up instead of following, and turned to go after the Batcopter.

"It's on me now." Batman reported. "Still getting good imagery? We have another aspect now."

Oracle scanned her screens. "Yes, I am. Match is now at ninety six percent; Good enough for me. I have a back trace active on it's controller, and am working to get performance specs."

Batman turned into the Crone. "Let's see how it likes high-throughput laser." He fired. The Crone took a hit to the wing, but came on, apparently unperturbed. " It's trying the same tactic as last time, trying to ram. Apparently only carries two missiles."

Oracle had her hands full. "Copy that; I'm clear of the tunnel, and back inbound. I couldn't tag number three."

He considered the approaching drone, now essentially a guided missile. Main guidance is not optical... He slid out further over the river. "Going for directed EMP."

"I'll be there to help in just - a second..."

"Help me? With what?" He flipped on the EMP emitter. "Charging now."

The Crone staggered, the tail shredding, then it augered into the river. A moment later there was an explosion just under the water's surface.

Batman scanned the area, but it didn't appear the debris was going to hit anything. "Oracle, please tell me that was you?"

Back in her sanctum, Barbara Gordon was justifiably proud of that shot. The Dart was still in development as a replacement for the Stinger ground based antiaircraft systems in a stealth aircraft environment. Like that older missile, it was also used by smaller aircraft like helicopters - and of course drones. "Yep, another Dart. I like them a lot!"

Batman reversed and headed into the city to pick up Carrier three's route. "How is the back trace going?"

"Getting a DOD 'who the hell is on this channel '- Batman! An explosion just past the toll booth!" Dayhawk did an Immelman, and came back at full speed.

Face set like stone, already knowing what he was going to find, Batman guided the chopper between the Gotham skyscrapers towards the blast. "The van is laying on it's side. Both officers in the cab are clear. Trail car has hit parked vehicles - " Suddenly there was a rocket trail, and the van exploded. "God! Oracle! RPG launch from the office building!"

The DayHawk was already showing the launch site. "I see it! Fourth floor, third window from the left!" Another detail window came up, showing the building in relation to the city. Oracle grasped the most pertinent fact immediately. "They have a subway station under that building!"

Batman guided the chopper over the building, and dropped like a stone, not to the roof, but down the side of the building. His grapnel bit into the wall, and he came in through in thru the window of the ambush site. There was a discarded Russian made RPG tube, and backblast exhaust residue still in the air, but nothing else in the room.

Batman ran out into the hallway through the open door, listening for footfalls. The two elevators were out of position to be possible escapse routes; one was on the ground floor, the other two floors below him and rising. He ran for the central stairwell. "He's running. Give me the building layout, and the subway entrance."

"Building schematics up now." Oracle hit send. "Coming to you!"

He slammed open the door, peering down the stairwell. He could see a man on the first floor and moving downward toward the subway level. "Got him!" He jumped over the railing, punching a grapnel up to slow the fall at the end. The man had just reached the sliding doors to the subway access tunnel when Batman landed lightly. "STOP!

The man froze and looked behind him. He was short, fat, and breathing heavily. He was also completely clean. The scent of his aftershave hung in the air. "Batman!"

Batman grimaced. "Damn. Anyone run past you this way?"

The man was pale. "A couple of guys got off at the lobby ahead of me. Running fast."

"Thank you." He charged up the stairs, but when he reached the street, all he saw were cabs driving by. "We lost them."

**Behind the Big Top: The other side of the events.**

Joker took his seat, waiting until the van started moving before picking up his hygiene kit. "Put it down." The guard snarled.

"Come, come, Sancho. I must prepare for the windmill."

The guard leaned over, snatching Joker up off the bench, and drew him in face to face at less than three inches. "My name is Brock, and you are going to sit there, silent, or you'll be in the hospital. Am I making myself clear?"

"Oh you are so... Butch!" Joker breathed as if it excited him. Brock snorted, shoving him back down. Joker looked down as if he had been cowed, but watched Brock sit back. His eyes blinked slowly. He leaned back, then fell on his side thirty seconds later. _Sweet Dreams, sucker..._

Now unobserved, he picked up and opened the kit. First he took out the air freshener tag, still in it's cellophane bag, opened it, then crunched the center between his fingers before putting it in the inside pocket of his suit. "I'm not the only one who's predictable, Batsy..." he muttered. The idea of Batman suspended like an air freshener came to him, and he giggled a moment. Then he pulled out the packet of cigars, stripped off it's cellophane, and drew one of the real ones out. He lit it, and breathed a sigh of contentment. He'd provoked the guard because it would have taken longer for the sleep drug in his cologne to work even in the narrow confines of the sealed van, without closer proximity.

Now he pulled out the small travel size can of shaving cream, and with difficulty sprayed the gel on the hinges of his manacles. Then he set it down, taking the cigar from his mouth, and leaned forward, touching it to the gel as it began to turn into foam. There was a moment of doubt, but then it flared into actinic life, and the thermite melted through it. Once one had burned through, he repeated with the second, and except for some blisters, his hands were free. He repeated the process with the ankle cuffs, and then lay down on the bench, one foot across the other knee, and enjoyed his smoke.

As the van moved on, he considered. He could lay a circle of foam to burn through the floor of the van, but if he did it before he reached the city, he would just roll out in front of the damn chase car. No, he'd wait until he was in Gotham, and damn with sneaking out. He would pop right through the back door like a Jack in the Box!

Then they were in the tunnel.

The cell phone rang, and Thompson, the one in charge of the ambush answered. He grunted in reply, then closed the flip phone. "Just entered the tunnel." His associate Sears nodded, unzipping the gym bag and taking out the venerable RPG 7 tube, then the warhead itself. Carefully, he slid the rocket motor down into the muzzle, then turned it until the catch engaged.

"We may not have to use it." Thompson reminded him.

"Hey, I've wanted to pop one of these off ever since I saw them used in-country." Sears replied. While it was an older model no longer in production in what was now the Commonwealth of Independent States, the design was still made in a lot of third world countries, particularly North Korea, who did good business selling them to whoever brought foreign currency in appropriate amounts.

Since the back blast was a danger to them, Sears knelt and shouldered the tube at the open window. The sights were rudimentary, a mere strip of metal with a series of holes in it for different ranges, each marked in Korean. He wouldn't need them though. At this range it was line of sight.

Now he heard the angry blast of horns. For some reason, they had never put in an overpass to take the tunnel traffic above the city traffic, and of course there was a light less than a hundred yards from the exit. Joker sprayed a half circle of foam on the door around the locking mechanism, and as the van began to pull away from the light, he ignited it with the last of the cigar. It flared to life, and he lay down, ready to kick the door.

"Target." Thompson said, raising the small black box with the red button. As the van was still moving slowly, it was a simple thing to wait a few seconds before he pressed it.

In the chase car, the officers snapped upright as something flared on the door. The one in the passenger seat snagged the microphone, and stared to talk, but all that got out was 'This - " before hell arrived.

The principle of what is now called an IED, or Improvised Explosive Device is idiot simple. A disguised bomb set beside a road, triggered by remote control. They could be as large as a truck, or as small as a lunchbox depending on your target. Some were booby trapped to delay or stop removal. Thanks to such measures, whenever airports and transit stations thought they had one, they routinely used bomb disposal to set up blast baffles around them, and blew them in place with outside explosives, so people who had forgotten their luggage tended to have to replace it.

This one was not as large as the van it had been installed in. If it had been, it would have leveled the block. Ten pounds of C4 had been placed in a holder attached to the inside of a roughly three foot square box made of sheets of four inch thick steel. In fact that box had been the reason they even used a van, because it was so heavy. It also made the blast directional.

When it went off, the blast tried to go in every direction, as any explosion will. But to all directions except one, the steel box stopped it. Frustrated, the entire blast was directed on the one path left to it: through the one side of the van.

The box itself was hurled through the opposite side of the vehicle, through the outer wall of the building behind it, and was later found thirty feet into the structure itself. The light sheet steel of the driver's side of the vehicle never had a chance. Everything from the hinges of the driver's door back to the corner of the rear bumper was turned into shrapnel still moving at the 6,000 feet per second of the initial blast. Thankfully, Gotham PD had blocked the sidewalks on both sides at the corners so only a few people who thought the signs didn't mean them were injured.

The lead car, having already passed, was undamaged. The chase car had been trying to get to the rear of the van before Joker could escape, so both it and the transport van were caught in the explosion. The chase car flipped once in the air, landed back on it's wheels, then coasted down the street unguided until it ground sideways into the cars parked illegally on that side of the street. Both officers were flayed by glass, and knocked unconscious, but they were still alive.

The transport van itself was made of much sterner stuff. After all it routinely transported people like Solomon Grundy and Clay Face. So the blast caught it and rolled it like a dog hit by a car, to land in the oncoming lane which had also been blocked, this time by an actual patrol car at the other end of the block, so no other vehicles were hit by it.

Inside the van, Joker found himself under Brock as the floor suddenly became the wall. Neither Brock nor Sergeant Lopez who was driving, nor Officer Smith, who had been riding with Lopez, were seriously injured.

Yet.

Joker giggled. "That's my cue." he whispered, then kicked the backdoor. He rolled out onto the pavement, dragging Brock by his coat collar. Hostages are always useful...

"Let's go." Thompson ordered. Sears looked at him like a kid just told that Santa Claus wasn't coming this year. He sighed."Be my guest." _Boys and their toys..._

Sears grinned, acquired his target - and held his fire a moment as Lopez and Smith clambered out of the wreckage and headed for the chase car. As soon as they were clear, he pulled the trigger. With a whoomp the grenade flew out. The delayed action engine barely had time to ignite before it hit the armored van right on the fuel tank.

Brock and the Joker, because they were on the far side of the transport, were largely missed by the fury of the blast. Brock was torn from the Joker's grasp and ended up in a pile of trash bags in the alley. Other than the wounds to his pride, he was essentially unhurt. The Joker shook his head where the blast had thrown him down, crawled down the alley, under the cover of the burning transport, and came to a manhole cover. He used the last of the shaving cream to lay a cross hatched X in the cover, and lit it with the lighter from the cigar pack. A few seconds later the distressed metal gave, falling into the access tunnel below. He climbed down the hand holds to the bottom, and headed uptown.

The office building had entries on both sides, though the lobby on the street side facing the explosion had been trashed by the boxes' journey. Thompson and Sears merely walked out of the stairwell door, looked at the wreckage of the entrance in that Gotham way that said 'I'm not part of this, and I don't want to be', and walked out onto the other street. Thompson waved for a taxi, which promptly pulled over. It had already turned the corner when Batman burst out onto the street, looking around frantically.

Joker opened the door enough to look out. The subway platform, choice. He noticed a floppy hat laying on the floor, snatched it up, and put it on. Not my usual fedora, but any port in a storm...

"Got some spare change?" He turned to look at what might have been a bum, but the man's hands were too clean. The clothes were obviously stained, but there was none of the stench you would have expected from the truly unwashed. And the 'dirt' on his face was more a bad make up job. He understood people trying to make a living, but this poseur... probably a graduate of that panhandling school they had here in Gotham!

He would have just killed him off and be done with it, but he was in the mood for some fun. No change, but he grinned inwardly. He took out his cigar pack. There were three remaining, the lighter/cigar, the smoke bomb cigar, and the other one. Well, waste not, want not...

"Sorry, friend. No change. But here." He dropped the box into the cupped hand. "I'm sure this will be something you have never tried. Says it's from Havana.."

The man grimaced, then put on the penitent whine again. "Thanks, mister." Joker jumped off the platform and disappeared into the tunnel.

An hour later Harvey Shingles, a graduate of the school Joker had remembered, sighed as he checked his take in the bathroom stall. Only about fifty dollars. Not great, but about average. He always moved from place to place to avoid the transit police so he wasn't a common fixture anywhere.

Not a glamorous job, but he made enough to pay for his apartment. He actually made enough to be defined as middle class in today's economy. He changed into the faded jeans and T shirt of a student, carrying the backpack with his panhandling clothes, and walked out of the station to the parking structure a block away. He got into his car, a four year old Honda, and looked at the one 'donation' he hadn't expected. He'd heard about Cuban cigars, but he has never tried one. He pulled it out, sniffing it. Odd, a metallic smell. He shrugged. They were supposed to be the best... He pulled out his lighter, and lit it. Ah, a great smoke-

The cigar suddenly exploded in flame more like a 4th of July sparkler from hell, and his mouth opened in shock. The cigar fell into his lap, and being made of thermite, promptly burned through his clothes, and parts of his body he had wanted to use later that evening.

He was still screaming and beating at himself when it burned through the seat, the floorboards, and then hit the fuel line.


	5. If it Ain't Baroque, don't fix it

**Home is sometimes a battlefield**

Statistically, you are more likely to be killed by you family or nearest and dearest than by anyone else, followed by roommates, and finally by 'Mr. Goodbar'.

Take roommates for example. You survive with a roommate by being as aggressive as the Bighorn Sheep, butting heads to make sure your rightful place is upheld. So it all boils down to demarcation. First is whose name is on the lease and the utilities: if you pay the bills, you get the veto. Ivy used this club religiously with her two off again on again roomies, Harley and Catwoman. Only Harley was a roommate per se. Catwoman had her own place, but sometimes, you just have to hang with your friends, and she didn't have many. So she hung out a lot with the other two women that had been briefly dubbed the Gotham City Sirens.

Second is sleeping arrangements. As the leaseholder (At least her alias held it) Ivy had taken the only two bedrooms, one for sleeping, the other for her arboretum before they sorta moved in. No one except her was allowed in the arboretum without permission, and except for one regrettable incident with Isis before they got her a cat box, that rule was strictly observed, because it was as the old saying goes, my way or the highway. That left the basement, and the foldout couch to sleep on, and her rule was simple, whoever got home first got the couch, the other could by god sleep on the floor, the basement, or if very friendly, share a bed.

The last, the one that causes the most homicides when not observed, is simple put as Mine and Thine. There were comfort foods or simple likes that brought food and sundries into the house, but they belonged to the one who bought them. Sometimes it was simple; Ivy was a strict Vegan, so if it was red and dripping from the butcher's, she wouldn't be touching it. Harley loved Earl Grey Tea, while Ivy liked herbal teas, and Catwoman loved Lattes, even those godawful instant ones. So they had shelves in the cupboard and refrigerator with their name on it.

But there is always that food all of them loved, and if you bought it, and forgot to mark it as yours, it was suddenly community property. This included, as you would think, Ice cream of any variety, and chocolate. Ivy rarely crossed the border on these because she was lactose intolerant. But the other two were constantly squabbling over that. And if it was rainbow sherbet, all bets were off.

So the argument started over a violation of rule three...

Ivy had been hard at work in the arboretum, and felt the need to take a break. She walked down the stairs, into the kitchen, still concentrated on the clipboard she held. She opened the refrigerator due to long practice at working the way she did, reached out, and here was where it fell apart, because the container she wanted wasn't where it was supposed to be. She frowned, looking down into the cooling unit, but it wasn't there at all. She glared at Isis, who was lapping up the milk in her bowl. But only an idiot would have given it to her. Idiot...

As much as they tout their life style as 'less aggressive', never believe that a Vegan is nonviolent. Just watch a Cape Buffalo in action; a ton and a half of Vegan fury with the attitude of a wolverine. Ivy wasn't that big, but a Cape Buffalo would have sidled away hoping he wasn't noticed when she got mad.

So, with flags flying, the war began.

Ivy stormed across the living room. Obviously Harley wasn't there. It was a nice sunny day, but she probably wouldn't be up on the roof sunbathing. That was one pass time they almost always did together, much to the joy of the Gotham Police Air wing, who liked to patrol this area hoping to see these three attractive women laid out toasting gently in the sun.

There was a knock, and Ivy looked. Then opened the door. "Hi, Cats. Harley is making Vegan lasagna, which might keep her alive a few more minutes."

"What has she done this time?" Catwoman asked. She hadn't brought her hood and goggles, because her identity still wasn't known to most, and even here among her friends, she and Bats shared that 'it's a secret' attitude as to who they really were, so she was always Catwoman, or 'Cats'. Then she interrupted Ivy's answer with 'Vegan Lasagna? But it's cheese, and ground beef! What kind of idiot makes vegan cheese? And what about Parmesan?" She was looking positively green at the thought.

"There's a growing market." Ivy put on her 'I'm a vegan which makes me better than you' attitude. "And what kind of monster raises an animal just to kill it and eat it? Or murders a calf so you can still have the milk? Or to wear it's fur?" She waved so Cats wouldn't answer. "First I have to kill Harley for stealing my soy milk, then you can watch me eat the meal alone." She flung open the basement door, and continued on her storm.

It looked odd unless you understood why. Harley had her hair in pig tails, standing in the center of the biggest basement room, a set of wireless headphones on her head, gesturing as if she were Leopold Stokowski. Her eyes were closed, and she was blissfully unaware of her fast approaching doom. One thing they had argued about had been music. Both liked classical, but Ivy preferred Chopin, Brahms, and a bit of Bach and Mozart's lighter work. After all, plants liked music too. But Harley was into what might have been called the 'Heavy Metal' of classic; Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky (She loved the 1812 Overture, cannon and all) Wagner (especially the Ring Saga) and Berlioz. So if Harley listened to music, it had to be down here with headphones so she didn't bother either Ivy or, worse yet, Mrs. Ralston.

Ivy walked to the boombox, and shut it off. For a moment, Harley froze, as if she had been put on pause instead of the music, then turned. She took off the headphones. "Hey Red. Sorry, lost track of the time." She looked at her watch. "About ten more minutes, and the lasagna is done! I used eggplant and Shittake mushrooms this time because you said the Portobellos were too soft."

Ivy crossed her arms, toe tapping. "What did you do with my soy milk?" She demanded.

Harley looked guilty. "Your soy milk?"

"Yes, The half gallon marked with my name and 'touch it and you die' beneath my name. Did you drink it?"

Harley looked shocked. "You're joking! Me drink soy milk? Blech." She pretended to gag and induce vomiting.

"I let you stay here because you're a better cook than I am, and I have yet to find a proper Vegan restaurant that delivers. But by Gaia, If you drank my soy milk-"

"Ivy! Harley! This you have got to see!" Catwoman shouted.

"Oh great." Harley groaned. "Mrs. Ralston will be over here in a hot Gotham minute to complain if she doesn't use her inside voice." It was a wonder, but all three of these arch-criminals that would face the Bat, police, or thugs of the underworld with aplomb even cheerfully lived in terror of that little old lady. If their enemies ever found out, they'd have the perfect weapon to use to defeat them every time. Just have her come over and convince them to agree (If it were crooks) or surrender (Bats or the police) and they'd end up, heaven help them, doing _housework_. They already helped her with the shopping!

Both pounded up the stairs. Catwoman had taken the center of the couch, and had on the local news. "Looks like your boyfriend escaped yet again."

While Ivy said, 'Boyfriend?' Harley shouted 'Puddin!'

The scene from the news helicopter didn't show much. A police transport van was laying on it's side in a street on fire, the doors looking as if they had been melted. Beyond them, a manhole was open, with smoke rising from it. They watched silently as the report came in. The Joker being taken to court, a daring escape, or maybe an assassination attempt and this was only the visual aftermath.

When it got to the 'we'll be following this breaking story' tag line, Catwoman walked into the kitchen. Ivy was wondering what would happen next. She had put her foot down when it came to the Joker. Harley could see him all she wanted, but honestly if she had a say, Ivy would have sicced Harley's Snookums on him rather than see his-

"HARLEY!" Ivy jumped on the couch as Catwoman stormed out of the kitchen. Harley was long gone. "Harley, get you keester in here!" She looked at Ivy. "Found out what happened to your soy milk Red. Harley gave it to Isis."

"She did what? Only an Idiot-"

"Or Harley not paying attention."

"-Or Harley not paying attention, would do that." Ivy agreed.

"Damn it, the girl knows that soy milk gives my cat the runs! By god, I'll have her cleaning up after Isis until it passes! Why the-" Catwoman stopped talking as there was a gentle rapping on the door. She walked over, and looked out, then leaned against the door, defeated without a shot being fired. "Damn, it's Mrs. Ralston. Ivy..."

Ivy took the 'better part of valor' approach waving her hands frantically in negation. After all it wasn't her that had raised the old woman's ire this time. Catwoman sighed, opening the door with an apologetic look on her face. "Sorry, Mrs. Ralston. Harley gave my cat soy milk, and you know what that does..." Then she smiled. "Listen; have you had dinner? Harley made Vegetarian Lasagna! I am sure Pamela would like you to share it with her in apology. Wouldn't you, Pam?"

Ivy wanted to begin screaming, but Mrs. Ralston looked so hopeful... "Of course, Mrs. Ralston. You and... Kitty, can join me, won't you, Kitty?"

Damn! Hoist on her own Petard! Both she and Isis was in for an unpleasant evening. "But that means there won't be any for Harley to eat when she gets home..."

Ivy's tight smile let her know that the feud was only on hiatus, "Oh I am sure I have something to feed her to."

They were all so sweet to her. But Emma Ralston, one time high school English teacher wanted to correct the girl's grammar, The way she had said it, it almost sounded like Harley was going to be the meal!

**Reunion**

Joker looked around. The place is a bit rundown... of course it was one of his fallbacks, and no one knew where it was-

A pair of strong arms wrapped around his neck -_ Already? I just got here -_ ! He grabbed for the shiv he still carried, then relaxed as a sweet high pitched voice eased seductively into his ear. 'Puddin'..."

"Harley." He purred. "So nice to see you again." He turned, his tone still light, but she could see the repressed fury in his eyes like a hot red spark. She didn't flinch back - she'd seen and survived it before. "Why didn't you visit me while I was in there?" He asked. "Almost a month with only a few walls between us. Why didn't you break me out when you left?"

"I couldn't, Mr. J!" She replied brightly. "I was able to get only one seed from Ivy, and I couldn't have gotten it to you." Harley saw no easing in the Joker's eyes, and knew she had only seconds. "It needed very special conditions, and if they knew I had it, they would have taken it away!" Completely true, and she knew he knew it, too. "But I did set up the trial and the gear to break you out!" His eyes were still cold, but now merely predatory, scenting the fear. "I'm making dinner to make it up to you. I hear you like Bob the Cook's Wednesday meatloaf at Arkham, and I have the recipe, sauce and everything!"

And just like that, the charming rogue was back. His eyes widened and he gave her a real smile. "That would be so nice, Harley! And you'll make it whenever I want!"

Harley smiled brightly, like she knew he liked. "Sure thing, Puddin'! So you take a quick shower to get rid of any chemical tracker Bats put on you, put that tacky suit in the sealed garment bag, get changed sit down and have a drink, and I'll have dinner ready in just a few minutes." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and he went to the showers like a good little boy. Harley relaxed and got on with her end of the deal.

He returned in his usual purple suit with a green shirt and red tie, picked up the remote, then considered his situation. He'd tried so many times to drive this city into the ground. Tried to slaughter the population, tried to murder Batman, all in an amusing manner of course, and what had he achieved? He had his fame... but he hadn't left a mark. Not really. People didn't count, they forgot and picked up the pieces and got on with their lives. What was his purpose in life? Sighing he sipped the wine. "Thunderbird. But it's a good week, you can tell..." he muttered to himself.

Harley finished shredding the greens for the salad, getting out two tomatoes the cutting board and a paring knife, then paused. She could hear he had turned on the TV, but he was flipping through the channels as if he was looking for something specific. Suddenly it stopped. She froze at the strident voice that came from the other room.

"When you're standing at the crap table of life, remember what any good gambler does, and pray, 'oh, lord, seven come eleven!'

She grimaced. Hezekiah Stonewall had been your usual hellfire and damnation preacher up until a couple of months ago. His public access channel ministry had been flagging, soon to be extinct, but in a burst of 'going down in flames' chutzpah, he had done what Oral Roberts had done a few decades before, putting out a call for millions to keep himself on the air, or God was going to call him home. When Harley had heard about him, she had remembered an old Bloom County strip where Bill the Cat had become a televangelist, and had asked for millions. with the offer that if he got it, he would ask God to call all of his competitors home.

Harley had shown the strip to the Joker and suggested that he start his own ministry and use the line - and then save God the trouble and go thru with it win or lose. It would've been a good joke, she thought... but Mr. J. had thought otherwise, and had impressed upon her mightily how little he liked repeating someone else's gag - with his fist, and his foot. She'd spent the next week and a half at Ivy's old place. Ever since, she had kept her peace.

But someone up there liked a bad joke as much as Mr. J. One of his parishioners had sent him a lottery ticket, and it won big. Stonewall had announced that he had won thanks to that parishioner, then announced it would all be donated to his already existing church, neatly avoiding taxes. Then he expanded his ministry to an hour instead of the half hour it had been, dumped the hellfire and damnation, and started pounding the pulpit with gambling metaphors. If you prayed to win, and did, you were expected to tithe to his church.

But Mr. J still wasn't switching channels. Maybe...

Religion had a problem with psychotherapy. Some, the Catholics for example, taught it to their priests to help them in the confessional. Some could take it or leave it. But others denounced it. The Jehovah's Witnesses believed in demons, but not in psychology, and therefore claimed that most such problems were caused by, you guessed it, demons. Christian Scientists believed that if you were really insane, prayer would cure you.

But what if her Puddin' became a Scientologist? She hacked and slashed at the tomatoes angrily. _No. I will not lose my Puddin' to some bunch of religious fanatics! I'd rather die_. The knife lodged in the cutting board; she'd used the point. _No, I'd rather he died!_ She paused, shaken by the strength of the thought. At least then he wouldn't hit her anymore... the thought was like a face full of ice water to her soul._ But he loves me! And he needs me!_ She looked blankly at the remnants of the tomatoes for a moment. then got a Tupperware container and used the knife to slide the now minced tomatoes into it. He liked Mexican food occasionally, maybe she could make salsa... She started over with another tomato.

_Look on the bright side!_

Oh sure she had lost her credibility in her chosen profession. If she were ever finally released, she'd have to go to beauty school. She reconsidered, with her record would anyone trust her even with a cuticle tool? Maybe have to get a job where she'd have to say 'do you want fries with that?' until they sent her back. But she had gained so much! She was in the best shape she had ever been between Ivy's injections and the strenuous workout of having to fight for her life. She had a loving homicidal maniac who fluctuated between laughing at her jokes, and trying to kill her, a felony police record, her own personal cell at Arkham... _No, better not think about the bright side._

She put the salad bowl on a tray with tongs and a couple of dressings she knew he liked. Meatloaf was nice and hot. Get him fed and bedded down. Maybe he'll even be in the mood to rev his Harley tonight!

"Oh Harley." The TV shut off. "I have just the thing."

She took the meatloaf out, and cut two generous slices, ladling the sauce (Heinz 57, a bit of soy sauce, some Worcestershire, and Grenadine, of all things) and set the butcher knife beside the tray. "What would that be, Puddin'?"

"I think I need to get to someone first, but I have an idea."

She picked up the tray, the knife beneath it in her right hand. All that crap about beatings - if he had suddenly gotten religion, this would be one hell of a last meal! When she got back to him with the tray, the Joker was pacing, as he sometimes did when his brain was fizzing. "Who is that, Mr. J?"

"Not yet, not yet... Good, meatloaf! I could kiss you!" He did just that, then sat, and she served him, figleafing the knife with the tray. He looked around, his good mood souring as fast as it had sweetened. "I have a place in mind, but we'll need some cash, fast."

"No worries, Mr. J! I can lay my hands on about a hundred thou in gold coins tomorrow morning."

"Ah, that's my Harley." He looked at the meal. "You're not joining me?"

"Sure I am, Puddin'. But I wanted to get yours out first." She spun, taking the tray back to the small kitchen, setting the knife back in the drawer, and served herself. _Okay, it wasn't to that point yet._

–

Harley looked at the group of thugs that had come from Intergang at Puddin's call. Honestly she didn't expect much from them. Too low brow. The guy in the front looked like he opened beer bottles with someone else's teeth!

"All right fellas, I'm Harley Quinn. We don't have a human resources department, just me. So if I get a little short with you mutants, you'll understand why. You were hired to do a job, and Mr. J decides what that job is. There will be no discussion, unless he asks for questions. But the last time he did, he shot the first man who raised his hand, so I would think twice before asking, if you know what I mean. Oh, and as his sidekick, when I give you an order, it comes from his mouth, and you will obey."

"Or what, sweet cheeks?" That Neanderthal in the front row growled.

Instead of being nervous, she squealed in delight like a schoolgirl, clapping her hands. "Oh good! I was hoping to explain the policy on termination!" She spun like a ballet dancer, but when she stopped, she was holding a revolver that looked like so someone had taken a .44 magnum, and mounted the barrel from a grenade launcher. "You've heard of Russian Roulette, right?" At his blank stare she sighed. "Just nod your head, and say, Yes, Miss Quinn."

"Yes, Miss Quinn." He replied obediently, but still not too brightly.

"Well when those ex-Imperial, ex-Communist idiots play it, they take a revolver, load one bullet in it, spin the cylinder," She mimed the spinning, "Then they put it to their own head. Of course, the odds are one in six that they die. Or for those of you who aren't bright enough to figure it out, five chances that you live, and one that you die that very first time."

She waggled the gun in her hand. "But since I am the head of Human Resources, I also get to fire people most of the time, and when I fire people, this is what I use to fire them, if you get my drift. But it's not my head the gun will go against, no siree! And one in six? Takes way too long. So what I do is load _five_ bullets in it, so if I pull the trigger once, you have only one chance to live." She looked at the suddenly very nervous people in front of her. "Shall I demonstrate?"

He suddenly realized where her explanation was going, and that he had just become a visual aid in her example. He shook his head frantically. "No, Miss Quinn."

She smiled. "Too bad." Then she pulled the trigger even as he screamed. That was why the lemon tart hit him in the face. He coughed, trying to get it out of his throat, then looked at her with combined fury and terror. "Rule one with Human Resources, never mess with the blonde in the Harlequin outfit." At a lot of blank stares, she sighed again, motioning to her costume. "Second," she looked at the man she had shot. "You only get one warning, and you all just got that warning. So, any questions?"

A couple of them started to raise their hands, then stopped, looking nervous. "Guys, guys, I am not as short tempered as Mr. J. I have always thought there are no stupid questions."

"So when do we get paid?" One guy to her left said.

She sighed, aiming the gun crossbody, and blew him off his feet. "I said there were no stupid questions, but that was a dumb one. Not even on the clock yet, and he's wondering when he gets paid! Any other questions?" No one dared to speak or raise his hand. "Good, so let's go to meet Mr. J and he can give you your first assignments. Have a good first day!" She looked at the man on the floor, cursing from the bruises he had gotten from taking the round in the chest. "That means you too, putz."

**The best laid plans of mice and Jokers...**

The subway car stopped, and Joker lead her Solly and Max out to, of all things, a standard double front door. Beyond it was stygian darkness.

"Wow, this is.. dark." Harley said.

"It will be until I find the switch." Ahead of her Joker's flashlight moved back and forth, then settled on a standard electrical box, if you counted the 1940s as standard. He opened the box, fingers running down the old fashioned plug circuit breakers, then he closed it, grabbed the switch on the side, and slammed it up.

And then there was light...

They flinched from the sudden brightness, then opened their eyes on true wonder. It looked like the entry lobby of a mansion down to the fixtures, the sweeping staircase, and furnishings.

"Wow." Harley breathed. "This is wicked! Who built it?"

"The Cobblepots. Penguin's grandfather believed the Apocalypse was right around the corner, and built this to live in while everyone else died. Eight bedroom suites large enough for a family of four, servants quarters for forty, library, ballroom, small sewage treatment plant, even a snooker room." He looked around possessively. "Fully self sufficient; power from the grid right now, but there is an underground river that supplies not only water, but also a small hydroelectric generator."

"Then why ain't Pengie using it?"

"Because the old man was even more whacked and paranoid than his descendant. He had completed it, and was sounding out his social equals to see who he would offer sanctuary to. He was in a car wreck, and killed, and he hadn't told anybody anything about it. When they auctioned off the elder Cobblepot's estate before Penguin came on the scene, they sold one of the items, a music box, to a museum. I needed a music box with a specific tune to taunt Batman, so I stole the collection. But inside it, was a secret compartment with the key I used to call that train car."

"But what about food? Drinks?"

"Drinks with alcohol were stored before, and have been quietly aging since the 1930s. Except for beer, and white wine, of course. And as for food, don't you remember what the _second_ Cobblepot fortune was based on?"

"Of course. Supplies for the government during World War II, and..." Her eyes widened. "The first freeze drying processes!"

"Exactly." Joker purred. "But he went one better. He used cans filled with inert nitrogen to store the food after freeze drying it for his own use. Instead of a couple of decades, it's good for maybe a couple of centuries."

"Oh that is wicked! So supplies for what? Twenty or more years?"

"Oh he didn't live long enough for the Bomb to be a worry, but he figured society would fall apart and need to rebuild. So he saved enough for a hundred years. He also added hydroponics using the human waste from the sewage treatment facility."

"And no one ever found it?"

He smirked. "That's the beauty of it. It's built under an old Army Air Force Base. The land belonged to him, and when the Army started using planes, he deeded it to the US Army in perpetuity, with the proviso that nothing was to be constructed below ground more than 100 feet. Doing so voids the deed, and it returns automatically to the Cobblepot estate, which means if they dig an inch below that, all of this has to be returned to the Penguin. That limit is almost 200 feet above us."

"So we've sent the other boys to grab the Archbishop. What do we need to do to make him comfortable?" She asked looking around.

"I will look over the accommodations, while you and the other two check the inventory of the food and booze. We need some good wine for our first meal with him, and some harder stuff for afterward." He paused, then turned slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "You did remember to give them very specific instructions, did you not?"

She made a dismissive gesture. "Of course I did, Mr. J. 'Take the Archbishop and everyone with him, alive, at Gotham Airport and board the car when it comes. Don't kill anyone if you can avoid it'. Just like you said. What can go wrong?"

She was going to regret that last statement.

**If it Ain't Baroque, don't Fix it**

Archbishop Randall (Call me Randy) Snipes was ecstatic. Not only was the Pope coming to town in about ten days, but the Sistine Chapel Choir, sometimes called the Vatican choir, were coming in today to rehearse for the Mass where the Pope would officiate. He had to admit they were a much better choral group than his own, so there was no complaint there. He stood, ignoring the two guards with him as the Alitalia plane pulled up to the entry tunnel. At his motion, one of the guards held up a sign saying WELCOMING THE SISTINE CHAPEL CHOIR.

There was a flood of people, and he searched for, there! Father Richter, the director of the choir came out into the entryway, looked, then headed toward the sign, followed by ten adult men, a gaggle of young boys from seven to thirteen, then ten more men.

"Welcome to Gotham, Father." Snipes extended his hand, and the man genuflected, kissing the ring. "No time for all of them to do that. We have a pair of buses waiting to take you all to the hotel."

"I am sorry, You're Grace, but they have all talked about it. Only Messrs LeBlanc and Fennuci have ever been to your fair city, and they were telling tales about your, what do you call it subway? All of them wish to see it for themselves."

The welcoming smile became a bit fixed. "Well I had not anticipated that. But I am sure something can be arranged. Fredo?" The associate (read bodyguard) nodded, and took out his cell phone. He spoke for a moment as the herd moved to customs to get their bags. They had arrived at the baggage claim area, and had gathered their belongings before he closed the phone. "Gotham Transit is sending a special car for them. It will be downstairs at the platform in a few minutes. The police have cleared the station."

"Good." They went through customs easily, the diplomatic tags ensuring they would not be searched, and with one guard at the front, and another at the back, they went to the escalator down. Snipes sighed when he saw the station. If he had known they'd ask for this, he would have asked GTA to clean the station. It looked like any other station in the system, squalid. As they gathered at the edge of the platform, a light came down the tunnel, and the car came to a stop. It was a beautiful car, he'd say that much for them. An antique at least as old as the Archbishop himself, well appointed. Odd, he didn't know they had any of the older diesel cars still running.

The doors hissed open, and they entered the car. That was when they noticed the men who had come out of one of the EMPLOYEE only doors, and the four men inside the car. Machine guns came up to confront them. Fredo and his partner Matt both went for their guns, then saw the situation, and held their hands up.

It was a toss up as to who was more confused, the six men sent by Harley, or the suddenly captured hostages. They had expected the Archbishop and his guards, but who the hell were these other people? They had a pair not present who had noted the arrival of the two chartered buses, and had already disabled them, but none of them had thought of the passenger count for them.

"What do we do, Rocco?" One of them hissed to his associate. Rocco had been lucky that he was wearing a bulletproof vest when Harley had replied to his question about payday. That had taught him to follow instructions.

"We're just here for the Archbishop and his party. Who ain't with them?" Not a hand rose. "I shall rephrase. Who is not with the Archbishop?" Again no hand rose. He sighed. "Let's go, Joe." One of the men at the head of the car went to the motorman's position, inserted a silver key in a slot, and turned it.

"But Rocco-"

"Ms Quinn was real clear, Bobby. 'Take the Archbishop and everyone with him'." He looked at the crowded car, and the two guards who had been disarmed and cuffed. "As instructed."

The Choir got a good look at some of the known subway system, but there was something like _5,000_ miles of older track that had not been looked at for decades. Less than a mile from the airport they shunted onto such a section, and using both existing lines, and older ones, they made their surreptitious way across town. The boys were clustered on the seats, the older boys and some of the men calming the younger boys on that long trip. Finally there was a long strip with no stations at all. The car finally slowed, then came to a gentle stop behind another car already there. The doors opened, and with three on each end, they took their charges up to the main door, and went in.

"Bobby, go get Ms Quinn. I think we need better instructions. Wait a minute." He looked at the man in the clerical collar. "Who are all these people anyway?"

**Contrapuntal Toccata and Fugue for Serious Percussion in J **

"A choir." Harley repeated.

"Yeah. He was wit a group of boys and guys, and they all said they were wit the Archbishop. And when Rocco asked, they said they were a choir." Bobby repeated.

"A choir."

"Well yeah, Ms Quinn. You did say 'Take the Archbishop and everyone wit him'." He wasn't sure about her face. Was it shock, or maybe she got a glazed look before she went postal?

"A choir." Harley took a deep breath. "I send you out to take one man with a couple of bodyguards, and you BRING BACK A CHOIR?" She screamed.

"Well... yeah."

She clutched the sides of her head. This was not good. "What was the choir doing out there with him?" She asked when the headache started to subside.

"Meeting him."

She looked up. Meeting him?"

"Yeah." He was on more stable ground with that. "They flew in from Rome, or the Vatican, or was it the Sistine Chapel?"

She stared at him the headache now a migraine. "Oh my God, we just kidnapped the Sistine Chapel Choir." She clutched her head again. "They'll excommunicate us! They'll burn us at the stake! No, they'll turn us over to the Inquisition, torture us, _then_ burn us at the stake!"

Not the brightest crayon in the box, Bobby shook his head. "The Fire Marshall wouldn't let them."

"Wouldn't let them!" Harley mimicked savagely. "He'd get a PAPAL DISPENSATION!" She turned, holding onto her temper with both hands. Better yet, wrapping herself around it like an anaconda until it finally subsided. She turned back. "Get Rocco in here. You and he will go with me to talk to Mr. J about this." _That way he'd kill them instead of her..._

There was a sitting room in the house, and it had a small organ like some churches have. But forty years of neglect had left it sadly out of tune. No matter; while the guys were off getting his prey, Harley had sent out his minions who had been here helping, and picked up a Yamaha electronic organ from a pawn shop. It had been a steal, actually, as in, walk in with guns, threaten the cashier, and take it away.

He had sat at the organ, thinking about what music to play when the Archbishop was brought in. Toccata and Fugue in D Minor? Nah, too Phantom of the Opera. Maybe Berliotz. Nah, too Sleeping With the Enemy. He stood, then began playing Axel F by Harold Faltermeyer. Behind him the door opened, and Harley along with Rocco and Bobby came in. While he didn't know it, having never seen the movie, he was reprising the stance of the President from Monsters Vs Aliens. He glanced up, broke off the concert, and rubbed his hands together.

"So, they are back! Where is the Archbishop?"

Harley swallowed. "Well, Mr. J, remember I commented about what could go wrong?" She motioned to Rocco.

While Rocco made his report, Joker merely stood beside the organ, idly tinkling the keys. At one point, he reset it, and played Eine Kleine Nachtmusik with his own special settings of whoopee cushion belches and kazoos. Rocco had already finished the report long before the music was.

"So let me see if I understand. I sent you out to kidnap a man and his bodyguards, and you come back with an entire choir." The Joker sounded calmly conversational, just shooting the breeze...

"Yeah, Boss. But my instructions were to bring everyone with him, and the choir was with him."

Joker waved that off. "I know I don't pay you to think, but what am I going to do with a choir?"

"Trade up." Bobby said.

Joker looked at him quizzically. Harley and Rocco moved away from him. "I am not sure I am following you on this... Bobby, is it?"

"Yeah, Boss, that's the name." Bobby was on a roll and didn't see the pit in front on him. "Never heard of this Cistern Chapel Choir, but everyone knows the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. So we trade these guys for that choir... The ransom will be maybe a billion dollars!"

Joker began chuckling, swelling into a belly laugh. "I love it! So funny!" Then, still laughing, he drew, and shot Bobby between the eyes. "Like we have enough room for the Moron Tab and Apple Choir." He looked to Rocco. "Dump that in the waste treatment center."

"But Mr. J, that's for human waste!" Harley said.

He looked at the body. "Human waste, wasted human, what's the difference? I have to meet our guests." He set the revolver down, and walked out.

"Ms. Quinn?"

"Not a word." She snapped. "Put him in the meat locker. It should be cold enough by now." She strode after Joker.

She caught up with him as he approached the ballroom where everyone had been brought. He burst through the doors, walked straight to the Archbishop and cried, 'Bless me father, for I have sinned." Then he cocked his head. "No, that would take too long. We'd need to schedule meals, sleeping time, and the occasional mass. Let's not and say that we did." He grabbed the Archbishop's hand, and shook it. "Welcome to my abode, Archbishop. May I call you that?"

"Feel free." Snipes replied. He recognized both the Joker and Harley in costume, and was suddenly very worried. "If I may ask, could you release the choir? They are innocent of anything I might have done to offend you."

Joker looked shocked. "Oh you haven't offended me, Your Grace. I had you taken to help me arrange a summit meeting with the Pope."

"You want to talk to the Pope? Directly?" The Archbishop asked in a confused voice. "Whatever for?"

"Well things have been a little hectic and painful in my life, Lord knows." Joker replied dismissively. "And I have always believed if you are going to ask important questions, you go directly to the top. The way I see it, God's got some 'splainin to do." He looked over the crowd. "A bit more than I had planned on. Some loaves of bread, a large jar of peanut butter and some Muenster slices just isn't good enough, and I have no Joker fish, so I can't try the loaves and fishes bit. Harley?"

"Yes, Mr. J? She had a horrible idea of exactly what he was going to suggest.

"I think for tonight we need take out. Italian in honor of our guests. Find out what they want, and see to it. And while you're at it, we need some cooks and scullery help."

Harley sighed, snagging a notebook. _Four years of med school, two years as an intern, and I'm suddenly a waitress..._ "Excuse me. What would you like to have from an Italian restaurant?" She asked brightly. _And the first one to order fries will die horribly!_

**And if that wasn't bad enough...**

The man standing almost at attention in front of the desk was not at all happy with the situation.

To say his superior was less than happy is an understatement right up there with calling WWII a 'political discussion',

Amanda Waller looked up from the file. "So. You, on your own authority, sent one of our Crones into the airspace around Gotham, along with a minisub up the Somerset river. Where upon the sub was engaged by fire from the local police, and the Crone then fought a battle against an unknown drone while attempting to first disable, then destroy the Bat-Copter, a battle I might add, you lost. Then a week later, you sent in another sub and drone into the area around the Gotham River, and when that same unknown drone arrived, shot it down, and engaged the Bat-Copter _again,_ and again lost because there were _two_ drones. All this during hearings in front of the Joint Secret Intelligence subcommittee regarding their belief that I am overstepping my authority!" She stood, and the term towering rage fit. "If I could, I'd just have the Suicide Squad use you for a practice target!"

He licked his lips nervously. Since the current 'bad guy' members of the squad were people he had 'recruited'- read kidnapped- he knew they would kill him if the gloves came off, with no reprisal. "If I may answer the charges, Ma'am?" She gave him a brusque nod. "I am head of recruitment for the Squad, and I have never had to clear an op through you for that purpose before beyond telling you who I was attempting to recruit. In both cases with Quinn and Joker, they could have been snapped up and the world would think they had merely escaped and were at large. Full deniability before they go on an operation for us. The Crone was already in the air when Quinn escaped, and the sub wasn't damaged. And while Batman is on our 'do not recruit unless he offers' list, we knew he would interfere in our attempts.

"The same drone pilot flew both missions, and he's one of those frustrated geeks who always wanted to be a fighter pilot but couldn't pass the physical. So when he was able to scorch the Bat-Copter's sensors, he went in for the kill. The second time, he wanted some payback."

She growled, and took her seat again. "Until further notice, there will be no recruitment attempted in Gotham; the same as we already have for Metropolis. You will write a full report for tomorrow's hearings. That is all." She turned, then turned back when her phone rang. It was the Director of Task Force X's line. "Waller." She listened, and as her subordinate started to leave, she snapped her fingers, and pointed at the space he had just vacated. "Understood, sir. We'll handle it." She put the handset down with all the self control of a maniac on edge. "Someone kidnapped the Sistine Chapel Choir along with the Archbishop of Gotham. I am ordered to activate Checkmate in Gotham, and further, am ordered to have you ready to grab any suitable member for the Squad who were part of it. See to it, and don't fuck up again unless you really want to be a target. Dismissed."


	6. First Supper

A proper meal

Harley sighed, looking at 'her' closet. It was from old even crazier Cobblepot's time, and until Mr. J made her, she was going to leave it firmly alone. She hadn't brought a lot of her clothes from home, her costume and that gym bag of hers, she had to do with what she had brought. She opened the bag, freezing in shock, then took out the bodice Ivy had bought for her at the Renaissance Fair last year.

She fell into a chair, crying, clutching the bodice to her. That was such a good time, and the look on Ivy's face had been so choice. This caper had too much that might go wrong. Mr. J wasn't known for his restraint when it came to hostages...

No help for it. She dressed, the bodice over a pair of ivory jeans. She wiped off all of her face make up, it wouldn't take very long to put it back on. Then she threw a white trench coat over it all. then headed downstairs. She waved to Rocco. "Get three more men, and bring the body. We'll drop it by the tracks in a tunnel, where he'll be found. At least that way he'll get a decent burial..." The thought depressed her.

"Where are we supposed to pick up Italian for eighty?" One of the men, Solly she thought, whined.

Harley started to snarl, then checked herself; it was a legitimate question. "If I'm eating Italian in Gotham, It's going to be Luigi's. Let's go!"

She couldn't tell them why she picked the premier Italian restaurant to hit; because face it, even if they bought it, someone would talk about buying take out for that many. But she had fond memories of that place. Joker had taken the entire restaurant hostage after hours the first year they were together for her birthday. Made the cook make her favorite Fusilli with Spinach, Portobello mushrooms and Asiago cheese, and gave her a necklace with paired Jokers on it.

She led the men up the stairway from the station near the main library. "All right, I will order the food. You stay out in the alley." Harley paused. Solly looked pensive. "Spit it out, before I slap you into next week." She sighed.

"Ma'am, I like Italian, but I have a problem with cheese."

"So don't eat the lasagna."

"I like Parmesan. But it gives me heartburn."

She paused. "Is it just the color it makes when you add it?"

He paused. None of the men were deep thinkers. Hitting it until it stopped moving was more their forte. "It's more my mama always dumped it on the spaghetti like there was no tomorrow."

She pulled out her wallet, peeling off a fifty. "Go down to the Got-Mart store; it's a couple blocks down that way. Get me a gallon of gray paint, roller and pan. Then hit the Chickee-dee grocery store across the street, and get a one pound bag of unsalted cashew pieces, another pound of almond slivers and a Parmesan shredder." At his look she just felt tired. "Trust me. Meet the others out back."

Mario Compesano sighed as he watched the latest couple being guided to their table. Business was good tonight, and he was looking at a record deposit when he stopped by the bank. He walked around the podium toward the door to lock up, then paused as it opened. A blonde woman wearing a trenchcoat and a floppy hat came in.

"I need an Italian feast to go." She said before he could ask if she had a reservation. She pulled out a notebook. "Ready?"

He picked up an order pad. "Yes, ma'am." He was suddenly nervous, looking at the hair in pigtails from the sides of her head, and was she wearing some kind of red and black bustier? Something about that color scheme... but her voice drew him on.

"Antipasto salad for seventy, spaghetti with meat sauce for thirty-five, fettuccine alfredo for twenty-five, lasagna for fifteen, ceviche scampi and calimar for one, fusilli with spinach, portobello mushrooms and asiago cheese for one, with enough garlic bread for eighty." She paused. "We also need several bottles of wine; twenty Chianti, twenty Barolo and fifteen Moscato, six five gallon boxes of white milk, three of chocolate milk, and ten cases of assorted sodas for the kids. Want something gentle for their stomachs," She commented as an aside to herself. "Then I need ten gallons of Neapolitan ice cream, five gallons of sherbet, and enough Tiramisu for eighty." She looked up. "And I am in a bit of a rush."

Mario didn't blink; compared to what happened whenever the Gotham Legion won a game, this was easy. "It will take about twenty-five, thirty minutes. Is that soon enough?"

"I'll wait." She walked over to the waiting area, and sat.

Selina Kyle looked away from Richard Poindexter to watch the woman who had come in. She was close enough to hear the order. "Have I become so boring, Selina? The man asked, and she looked back guiltily.

"Sorry, Richard, but I thought I knew the woman there."

He looked, and she knew yet again why he was called 'Rick the Dick' by most women who knew him. His scan of the seated woman started at the high heeled boots, scanned up the tight white jeans, lingered on the fig-leafed bosom, then turned back to her without looking at the face. He was the kind of guy who would carry a paper bag in case he met a woman with a good figure and an unattractive face, because all he was interested in was below the collar bone.

Frankly if he didn't work for the Gotham Gazette in advertising, she wouldn't even talk to him. "So the Museum is buying space to announce the opening of the Bast collection?"

He chuckled in what he thought was an attractive manner. Gods, the Joker had a nicer chuckle! She immediately looked at the woman again. The thought of the Joker had given her the last clue she needed.

Their meal arrived, scampi for her, veal piccata for him. The conversation was light; she had what she needed, and wanted to see the collection for herself, but she did need to have dinner, and he was paying for it...

Harley took out her make up kit, and began reapplying her white face. She made doubly sure her lipstick was the bright red she always used, but left her domino mask for last. To anyone who saw her, she was just a bored young woman waiting for her order. She had just finished when Mario returned about five minutes early. "The food is ready, madam. Now if we can take care of the bill..." He was even more ecstatic after her order. The entire ensemble would be over three thousand dollars and change on the evening account.

Harley stood, but leaned her head forward, still hiding her face. "If you don't mind, it must be delivered, if that is not too big a problem. But I want to check it before I take it."

"By all means, Madam. If you would follow me?" Hell, delivery charges would make it closer to 4,000 dollars, though he would graciously waive the additional amount. After all, she might be a big tipper.

As she walked behind him, her hand came up, putting on her mask. She didn't notice the woman watching her intently as she went past that first table.

The door to the kitchen opened, and her hand opened the belt of her trench coat. Mario turned to face her, and looked down as something pushed gently against his stomach. It was some sort of revolver; he didn't know what brand name, but it looked huge.

"Now let's get something clear. This is a Smith and Wesson XVR .460 Magnum Compensator. If I have to pull the trigger it will go through you. In fact it would probably go through the entire _Brigade de Cuisine_ if I lined them up right. They make these for guys who hunt Kodiak Bear. Unlike most people who carry it, the name they gave it doesn't bother me. I don't have to compensate for my size down there, if you know what I mean. You! _Lavastoviglie_!" She pointed at the young man at the sink, elbows deep in the washing water. "Yeah, you, dishwasher. Open the back door." She looked at Mario somewhere between pityingly and with contempt. "You didn't even tell him what his job is called in Italian? It would sound more swank for him if someone asked what he does for a living."

The door opened, and her team poured in, pushing the driver of the delivery van head of them. "Solly! Rip that phone out." She ordered. "The rest of you, this is our food -" she motioned toward the aluminum trays behind Mario. "Get moving!" She glared at the kitchen staff still standing there in shock. "That means you too! Grab a pan and get loading!"

"Who are you?" Mario wanted to shout obscenities, wanted to take a swing, but if he didn't connect she'd likely shoot him. She pulled off her hat, revealing her face. He looked at her, then muttered. "Great. We get hit by some Harley Quinn Wannabe."

Harley looked at him, confused. "Wannabe? There's only one Harley Quinn!"

"Yeah." He snorted. "That's what they said about the first Scary Movie too. That's probably not even a real gun."

Harley thumbed back the hammer. It ratcheted back most convincingly, and the cylinder rolled over a huge notch. "Are you willing to bet your life on that?" He paled, and she gave him a feral grin. "Didn't think so." She merely watched him until the kitchen staff was pushed back in. "Block the door with the dumpster, and meet me out front." Rocco nodded.

She backed away from Mario, then reached into a pocket, and flipped a coin at him, which he instinctively caught. "May not have paid for the food, but the tip is good, and that tip is this; if you come outta here before I leave, just remember what this gun will do." She backed into the door, holstered the gun, slapped her hat back on, and left. Mario stared after her for a moment, then looked at the coin. A mint condition twenty dollar gold piece minted in 1928. He hastily pocketed it.

Harley strode out angrily, again not noticing the couple at the first table. _Wannabe_? He thought she was a _wannabe_?

She had leaped into the van shoving Rocco aside before Mario raced from the kitchen to his station to grab the phone there. "What's the matter, Mario?" He looked up to see Selina at her table.

When he was upset, Mario slipped back into the Italian accent of his birth, "We were-a just robbed by some Harley Quinn wannabe and her gang!" Then he spun away from her, shouting into the phone. "This is Luigi's! We were just robbed! What did they steal? Try enough food for eighty! Try over-a three thousand dollars worth-a of our meals!"

Selina smiled at Poindexter. "I had best leave. If I'm here, I'll be one of the 'usual suspects' they arrest." Richard watched her in amazement as she leaned forward, pecked him on the cheek, and was gone.

Meanwhile, a block away, Harley had a problem. There was no direct vehicle access to the hideout, and someone was going to spot the van, even without the smiling cook logo of Luigi's. She had saved herself that part of the problem by a quick swatch of paint using a roller on both sides. But it would take time to unload it. She was still furious. Wannabe? She suddenly remembered where she had seen Mario before. He had been the waiter when Mr. J has set up that romantic evening for her way back when. Some jumped up _waiter_ was calling her a wannabe? She snarled, then dug out a street map. The Sidemore station was down for refurbishing, and would close in ten minutes. She put it in gear, squealing the tires.

"Boss-"

"Just shut up! She screamed. It was only three blocks to the station, and she lined up on the wide stairway leading down. "Pin all the food down!"

"You're not-" Rocco began, then shouted as she drove forward, 'Oh fuck you are!" He leaped into the back of the van, throwing himself on the food closest to the seats as the nose dropped onto the first step. There was a shriek of tortured metal as the van slid down three more steps, then the back wheels gained traction again. It was like going over a corduroy road at high speed, and everyone in the vehicle was screaming in either fear, or in Harley's case, delight as they thumped down the steps. Then the stairway ended, and they slid down to slam onto the platform, the ticket queues falling as the van smashed through them.

"Unload!" She roared, kicking open the seriously buckled door, drawing her weapon as she did. The transit cop that was locking the gate on the other end turned, then froze as she aimed at him. "Drop to your knees, copper!" She fired a shot past him, and he dove instead for the floor. "Solly!"

"Yeah boss?"

"Cuff him, grab his gun, and rip off the shoulder mike!"

A primary rule for a situation like this was never to work with someone who was crazier than you are. Unfortunately, Solly was already working for her. So he ran down the platform. As he was cuffing the transit cop, Harley holstered the gun again, walking to the one thing every subway station shared; a mural of birds. She looked along it, then found a narrow rectangular hole about half an inch long, and she took out the key, slipping it in and turning it.

The other three were almost finished when the diesel car arrived, and all of them moved the food into the car. Once it was done, Harley went to the motorman's compartment, slid the key into the slot, and drove away.

The unmarked car slammed to a stop and the two detectives piled out. The lead, a large stocky man looked at the other cars already there, then at the entrance to the subway station. His partner, a slim attractive woman in a pants suit was already heading in, and she turned to look back at him. "Come on, Harvey, the fun is inside."

"Yeah, yeah, Montoya." He grumbled. He stomped ahead, moving fast enough to catch up, then they went down the steps together. The top steps had been badly scarred, and starting about halfway down was a growing spill of oil, with transmission fluid added to it a couple of steps further on. At the bottom, the piece de resistance, the token machines smashed and shredded, a white van sitting in a large pool of combined water, oil and transmission fluid, with wide swatches of gray on the sides barely covering the Luigi Logo just beyond them. The back and side doors were still open.

They had originally rolled on the Luigi's robbery, but had not even arrived when they got the report about the van, and Montoya had badgered him into coming here first. He would have complained, but he could see the logo under that hasty paint job, and was glad they had.

"I've heard of door to door shuttles, but this is ridiculous." Harvey Bullock mumbled. "I hope we got a witness." He shouted into the small crowd of cops who were standing there. A couple of them escorted the transit officer over. His uniform was dirty from being face planted then cuffed, and the wire from his shoulder mike hung behind him like a pig's tail. The man went through what he had survived, and Montoya (who was a lot more eloquent than he was) took the notes. He had heard rumors that she was a carpet muncher, but, every time a woman did the job that well, that rumor came up. As far as he was concerned, as long as she kept doing the job as well as she did, he didn't care.

"So let me recap." Renee commented. "You were locking up the station when this woman in white face and mask drove the van down the stairs, then shot at you with," she looked at her notes, " 'some big ass gun', whereupon one of her men cuffed you with your own handcuffs, took your gun, and ripped off the microphone on your radio. Is that right?" The man nodded. "Well since this station is only open during rush hour and two hours either way, they couldn't have gone far on foot. Which way did they go? The last train through came through," she looked at her watch, "Over an hour ago."

"I can't explain it, ma'am." The transit officer replied. "But they were here less than five minutes when a single car stopped for them."

"A single car?" Bullock looked to the senior officer there. "You called GTA, right?" The man nodded. "Did they have a car that stopped here?"

"No, sir. They used the automatic tracking system to check the electrical usage. No car."

Bullock looked at the man triumphantly. "So what powered this car? Elven Magic, like the cookies?"

"It sounded like it was a diesel." The transit officer snapped back. "Sure as hell had exhaust like one..."

Bullock whistled tunelessly, looking down the platform. "They haven't used diesel cars in what, fifty years?"

"Sixty." Montoya replied. "So, a diesel train car. Was there anyway we can identify this car?"

"There was a shield on the side." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. "Black, with a red chevron, and three birds in flight, one in each section around it."

"Great." Bullock snarled. "Montoya, call it in, maybe some egghead at the library or the museum can tell us who it belongs to."

"It belongs to the Penguin." Bullock spun, moving much faster than it looked like he ought to be able to, spun. So did everyone else. "Bats! What the hell're you doin' here?"

Batman strode to the edge of the platform, the various police parting like curtains. "Spaghetti sauce. But none on the ground below. They definitely loaded onto a car." he stood, and addressed Bullock and Montoya. "The design he described is properly recorded as 'Sable a chevron gules between three magpies volant' meaning in flight. That is the heraldry of the Cobblepot family." He turned to go.

Bullock trusted montoya to get the fancy-dan stuff. "And where do you think you're going, Bats?"

Batman stopped, looking over his shoulder. "To see a man about his family crest."

"We'd better follow him. Maybe he'll shake something loose we can use." Bullock snarled.

"Better yet, we'll split up." Montoya replied. "You go to Luigi's, I'll go to the Iceberg Lounge."

"Hey, if I do that, I'll have to skip dinner to pick you up!" Bullock protested.

"Don't worry about it, Harvey. Just pick me up two orders of antipasto salad, gatò di patate and Lasagna to go." She handed him two twenties. "I was going to have dinner when I got home with my roommate."

"Sure, sure." Bullock pocketed the money. "I don't understand it, Montoya."

"What don't you understand this time?"

"How you and your roommate stay that slim when you both eat like horses."

She gave him a wicked grin. "A lot of strenuous, _fun_, aerobic exercise."

Boy did that give him a visual. "I don't need to know. What is that gatò di patate you mentioned?"

"Sicilian dish. Potato and cheese pie appetizer." She gave a quick wave, then collared a cop to drive her to the Iceberg lounge.

Bullock started up the stairs. He knew he had mangled the pronunciation of the dish, but they could help him at Luigi's. it sounded pretty good...

**Answers from the Penguin**

Oswald Cobblepot, better known to most of the City of Gotham as the Penguin, looked down over his club with satisfaction. Business was good, and the theater crowd had started to come in. He was a man who instead of hiding his rotund figure did his best to accentuate it. He always wore a tuxedo and top hat, and carried one of his umbrellas everywhere, as if he were a British Toff out on the town. Of course, where that British gentleman would be carrying at most a sword blade in his brolly, Penguin had had his artificers place much more efficient and lethal weaponry.

His Flappers were circulating. They were all attractive young women in tailored tuxedos of their own and bowler hats. He hired for looks, poise, and most importantly, training in mayhem at need. Because of it, his was the only health plan that included plastic surgery to repair injuries at need. But they were so much more attractive than the average bouncer, after all. Added a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to the business. Rumors that he forced the young daughters of his high society insolvents to serve in his club were utterly unfounded; such a thing would never do. But the rumor of it, ah, now that had served him well a time or three with the more - intransigent.

His subrosa business was slow at the moment, but like anything else, it was cyclic. What goes around definitely comes around. He paused at a few tables; his phenomenal memory meant if you had been there once, you would always be remembered. Of course that was a two edged sword; if you were disruptive, you would find those very large men he did employ telling you oh so politely at the door that you were not welcome.

He signaled, ordering a free bottle of wine to be delivered to the table of the starring quarterback of the Gotham Legion, and paused to look over his domain before he entered his office.

His good mood vanished. Batman stood at his wet bar, handling a cut-glass decanter. "Ah, my favorite Chiropteran Crusader... uncouth as always. Do you always make your associates jump?" He crossed over towards the Dark Knight, because it was always important in these matters to establish lack of fear. He took a pair of glasses from under the bar and placed them on the counter. "Do please be careful with that; that is 1927 Laphroaig. You might pour us a pair, if you'd like?"

Batman set the decanter down and turned away. "Perhaps another time. When I'm not busy."

"Ah, you're always business." Penguin walked across, rescued the decanter, and poured himself a drink. One year hundred year old scotch. Nectar of the Gods! "To what do I owe the honor? If this is concerning that unpleasantness with Lieutenant Brock et al... I had nothing to do with that."

Batman turned and faced him, deep in the shadows. "It's about a diesel subway car."

The Penguin's eyebrow rose, and he grinned. The Batman doesn't know something... "My dear man... a diesel railcar? That would date from the 1940s at the latest - a bit before my time, wouldn't you say? How would I know?" He sipped. "Private railcars were, of course, de rigeur for the first families of Gotham of the time. Ask my grandfather, you know where to find him."

Batman glared at him. They both knew Oscar Cobblepot was dead, and had been for decades; the Penguin had just told Batman to piss up a rope - with exquisite courtesy, of course. "The one I am asking about has your family crest on it."

Penguin walked across to his desk, sitting back, rolling the glass between his hands. "I know the family owned a few; my father mentioned in his diary that he couldn't discover what had become of two of them. When I read that, I thought nothing of it... but now I am curious about that. After all, if it has my family crest upon it, then it now belongs to me."

Batman almost smiled but did not. Let Oswald think he had the upper hand, he was sharing freely. "What do you know about your grandfather?"

Penguin snorted. "Reclusive, very paranoid about the world. He lost the bulk of his first fortune because of the stock market crash. He amassed a second fortune, but believed the world as he knew it was in it's final days." He shrugged. "If he had been poor, he'd have been considered quite mad. However he was rich again, so he was merely a bit more eccentric than normal. Spent much of the second fortune as well, and no one knows on what. Gambling, that was the rumor, though I doubt it. He died, I believe it was in October of 1944, in an automobile accident following a visit to Wayne Manor." The Penguin sipped again, working the whiskey in his mouth for a moment. "I truly have no idea of the provenance of this mysterious rail car, Batman. However, if this car is found, and my family's crest is indeed upon it, then I would expect that it be returned to me after all the tiresome CSI examinations."

"Possibly." Batman replied. "Unless it was sold." He took out a photo from the Batcar's printer. "There is camera footage of a young woman in a black and red corset, and pigtails... " He set it down, and Penguin picked it up to look more closely. "The railcar was used in the commission of a crime. Any thoughts on whom this might be?"

Penguin threw it back down carelessly. "Harley Quinn, of course - which means the Joker is not as dead as everyone has been led to believe. She certainly does not work for me - far too unstable." He stood, drained the glass, and set it down "And why would I steal food, Batman? The idea is ridiculous. I have an open account at Luigi's, which I settle quarterly; you may ask them yourself! He chuckled mirthlessly. And I am not stupid enough to assist in a crime using something with my family crest emblazoned on it." He slapped the desk. "And as for selling it, if my family sold such a thing, you may be assured they would have removed that crest first!" He stood. "Now if there is no further business..." He looked around, but Batman was already gone.

**Sing for your Supper**

A Jester's work is never done. Harley arrived to find that while the Boyz had set up the huge dining table for dinner, they hadn't bothered with the chafing dishes to keep the food warm. So she had to find them and the fuel for them, because they used a small spirit lamp instead of the more modern Sterno fuel. They had been able to put the aluminum pans directly into the silver dishes with their antique wooden handles, which was good. Of course, no one had polished said silver since the place had been built, and it would need a horde of maids to fix that problem. And being the only woman in the place, take a wild guess who's gonna end up doing that as well!

Finally she escaped to her room again. She was just going to put on her usual costume again, when her eye caught a dress. Cobblepot must have loved Halloween balls, or at least masquerade ones, because there was a dress in her signature red and black with matching opera length gloves, with small puff balls dangling around the low scooped neckline and waist. A layered skirt with the over-skirt in red and black with diamond patterns, a red skirt trimmed in black below that, a checkerboard skirt under that, with a full red skirt that brushed the floor last. She tried it on, and was overjoyed to find it fit after a fashion; the woman it had been made for was a size or two larger, but she could always remember to steal it and have it refitted. She pictured walking into the Iceberg Lounge on next Halloween with Ivy -

She stopped smiling, sniffing a little. She missed Ivy. The dinners she had made, and Ivy had praised. Watching chick flicks cuddled up like kittens; even Catwoman had joined in on those. The long hours of soaking in the sun to get a rich tan. The one time (so far) they had done it in the nude and gotten seventeen fly-overs in less than two hours...

She had a really really bad feeling about this one. The job looked to be more dangerous than anything she had done before, but if it had just been her and Mr. J, she wouldn't have cared. But she'd seen those kids, talked to them, got them food. Then she pictured them affected by Joker Gas, or by who knew what he might use instead. Mr. J was known for his violence, so she had a wide range of implements and tortures he had used before to go by.

Kids...

There was a knock on the door. "Yeah, c'mon in..." she hollered. Max, one of the brighter members of the gang opened it. "Nice dress, ma'am. The Boss was wondering what is taking you so long."

She dabbed at the tears. "Tell him I'll be right down." When he closed the door, she grabbed her usual hat, fixed her makeup, and followed.

The dinner went well, though there was a bobble when the Archbishop led the Choir in grace. Luckily only she and Mr. J were joining them, as they had found enough butler outfits for four of the men, and the rest merely waited, lining the walls, to eat afterward.

She had spent enough time with the 'waiters' to explain the etiquette of serving (Serve from the left, clear from the right, and don't take the plate until they're done ), and she tried to make sure they didn't just give the kids wine. She knew the drinking age in most of Europe was a lot less strict than it was in the US, so she had merely told them the kids could have a single glass of wine with the meal, unless one of the adults near them either said they would not, or allowed them to have more.

Rather than have them fumble around trying to serve a proper banquet, she had decreed that except for herself and Mr. J, all they would do is clear the dirty plates, with a fresh supply at the serving table with the lined up choices. She'd finally explained that it was like a Smorgasbord, or an all you can eat buffet, and had almost shot Lippy when he complained that it wasn't like the one he went to, because it wasn't Chinese.

There wasn't a whole lot of conversation during the meal. The kids came from across Europe from Budapest Hungary to Norway and Portugal. All of the younger members were at least partially fluent in Italian, and four of the adults (not counting the Archbishop) had at least some English. But expecting a bunch of hostages wanting to converse politely with their kidnappers was beyond even Stockholm Syndrome this early in the game.

As it was, the only time Mr. J said anything was when he asked for something else. Two antipasto, two portions of lasagna, and one of Spaghetti. He drank a single glass of each of the wines she had brought, then asked for his favorite Thunderbird. She drank as much as he did, but after going through the selection, had sent one of the goons down to bring up a bottle of port for her after dinner drink. Harley shared the port with the Archbishop and the older men. Each tasted it carefully. After all, it had been bottled in 1930. But all agreed it had been an excellent year.

Finally everyone was replete, the goons served themselves and sat to eat in shifts at a smaller table, and Mr. J tapped the side of his water glass. "Make sure everyone has some wine for this." He ordered. "Can't do a proper toast otherwise." Each of them watched him silently as he stood. None of the boys were frightened of him now, frankly they didn't as yet understand the peril they were in. Max and Fredo, disarmed, their phones taken away, almost refused the wine, but at Mr. J's look, they had accepted.

"I hope you enjoyed your dinners. So I propose a toast. To getting answers that help me find my way!"

Everyone repeated it, and drank. "Now if someone can escort the boys out, I would ask the adults remain for the second toast." The goons that had already eaten led the boys out. Once they were out, and the doors had closed, Joker raised his glass again. "And for the choir, to pay for my largesse."

The toast was again repeated, however all of the hostages remaining, including Harley, were a bit nervous about the context. Joker put down his glass. "I have decided to free the choir; after all, they're a bit many to feed! And think of the potty breaks!" he giggled loudly in the otherwise dead silence. "However I feel they should, as the saying from the 30s goes, have to pay for their supper. So I ask for three hymns. If they please me, I will let all of them go unharmed."

The only person not stunned by the comment was Harley. "But why, puddin?"

Mr. J looked at her. "Music has charms to sooth the savage breast, my dear Harley."

"I thought only killin' did that for you sweetie-pie... well, that an' revvin up your Harley!" She added with a soft grumble only he heard, "you haven't done that yet..."

"Business before pleasure, my girl. Well sometimes, I do like music you know. Didn't I groove to Metallica?"

She perked up. "Uh huh! and what was it called? Iron Bumblebee?"

He sighed. Her knowledge or rock and roll could be written on the inside of a matchbook using a large laundry marker with space left over. "If you had been born in Philadelphia, I'd say you were a Philistine." He turned to the now very nervous members of the choir, "I am terribly sorry that I don't have a proper choir loft, and the acoustics of the sitting room honestly suck. But you are going to sing for me, and sing what I want you to sing. Or something really bad will happen." He pinned one of the baritones with a cold eye. "Ever hear of Castrato?"

The men started to protest, but the Archbishop raised his hand, and silence returned. "I can see what you wish. However, I ask that you refrain from any act until they are allowed to learn anything they do not know. Is this agreed?"

Joker grinned. "Oh, I have no problem with that. We have, what, several tons of food, Harley?"

"We have enough for everyone for the better part of one hundred fifty years, assuming we have people to prepare it. The other staff; kitchen people won't be here until tomorrow."

Richter shrugged. While his Italian was not only flawless but unaccented, his English sounded like Sergeant Schultz from the old Hogan's Heroes. "I myself and three of the men can prepare breakfast and lunch at need. Under supervision of your men, of course."

"Oh, by all means. Though one must be done tonight." His eyes glittered dangerously. "Onward Christian Soldiers."

"Please." Richter raised his hand. "That is an English processional of the19th-century. The words were written by Sabine Baring-Gould in 1865, and the music was composed by Arthur Sullivan in 1871. They - they do not know it."

That just hung in the air, fouling the Joker's mood by the millisecond. Then Rocco, damning himself but not able to stay still, stood forward. "Hey Boss."

"What, Rocco?" Joker snarled.

Rocco offered his prayer up to who he knew not: only keep 'im off 'a them kids... "They may not know the words, but you know who would?"

The Joker's deadly gaze transferred to him. "Tell me, I am agog that you know anything."

"The Salvation Army. They sing it all the time."

"We get the hymnals from them, Mr J!" Harley put in rapidly.

Joker considered. "All right, I will let them learn it first. The second is Jerusalem by William Bishop."

Again Richter held up his hand. Joker merely nodded. "The words of the hymn were based on a short poem by William Blake in 1808. The music was written by Sir Hubert Parry in 1916, and around that time it was made into an Anglican Hymn under that name."

Joker's teeth grated. "All right, we'll have to steal another stack of hymnals. Now we come to the... cutting edge. The Hymn of Joy. I have never heard it performed properly, but they did a jazzed up copy of it in a movie named Sister Act two." He looked triumphantly. "A Catholic School choir performing it."

The Archbishop looked like he was deep in thought. The Europeans merely looked confused. Joker motioned to Harley. Her voice wasn't up to professional standards, thanks to her nervousness, but she belted out the first line as it had been in that movie. "Joyful-joyful lord we adore thee, God of glory, lord of light."

Suddenly one of the choir members began talking rapidly in Polish, then at the Archbishop's motion, switched to Italian. All of the men began nodding eagerly. Joker watched, then growled. "Is someone going to tell me what's going on in English? Or am I going to have to cut the discussion short?"

"It is again an English Hymn." Snipes replied. "However the Ode to Joy by Beethoven was made the national anthem of the European Union. They do know it, if you will accept it in the original German?"

"Oh by all means." Joker allowed.

The entire group went first into the entry hall, then after corralling the boys, into the sitting room. Joker sat with all the aplomb of Victor Borge, and began to play. Unfortunately, the organ was still set for sound affects, causing the boys to suddenly giggle. Richter motioned to his own organist, who walked over. "_Permisso_?" Joker allowed him to take the seat.

Once he had reset the system, he entered the overture. Richter raised his hands. "_Stiamo andando a cantare Inno alla gioia in originale tedesco per questa persona molto disturbata._" he instructed. A basic translation would be,'We're going to sing Ode to Joy in the original German for this very disturbed person', since the word for lunatic had come from Italian.

So with four trained soloists, and a choir quite sure they were going to die if they didn't do it right, they followed their director.

O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!

Sondern laßt uns angenehmere

anstimmen und freudenvollere.

Freude! Freude!

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium,

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligthum!

Deine Zauber binden wieder

Was die Mode streng geteilt;

Alle Menschen werden Brüder,

Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Harley, who was conversant in German, repeated the first portion in English until My. J waved for her to be quiet.

O friends, no more these sounds!

Let us sing more cheerful songs,

more full of joy!

Joy, bright spark of divinity,

Daughter of Elysium,

Fire-inspired we tread

Thy sanctuary.

Thy magic power re-unites

All that custom has divided,

All men become brothers

Under the sway of thy gentle wings.


	7. Behind the Scenes

**Behind the Scenes**

Ivy came down the stairs at the knocking, on her door. She opened it, "Cats-" She paused as Catwoman came past her, turning to wait until Ivy had closed the door. "Did you find out about the seeds?" Catwoman had done her friend a favor that piqued her own interest. There was a grass variety that had died out around the first century CE near Bubastis, once the temple city if the cat goddess Bast, which is now Tell Bast in the Nile Delta near the city of Zagzig. There had been a tomb recently discovered there with of all things, a small clay box filled with seeds of a dozen plants in neatly divided and labeled spaces.

Some were flowers, a couple were grains, but one was simply labeled Sour Grass. Having been dated a full millennium before the variety had become extinct, Ivy was hoping that it was the type she had read about. Planted amongst grains in the delta mud, those with it reaped good harvests, those without had little or none, since delta mud everywhere in the world is tainted with salt.

But according to some scrolls written at the time when Moses had supposedly turned the river water into blood, those who lived in the delta had found that dumping hands full of the seed into water vessels cleaned it sufficiently that it was drinkable.

While the Russians had germinated tissues from a fruit over 32,000 years old, it hadn't been from the seed. No one had ever gotten a seed this old to grow. Only one, the extinct Judean Date Palm had been successfully brought back from extinction, but that seed had been only about two thousand years old.

She envisioned what could be done. By growing one, you could find what chemicals it could leach from water, and by gentle tinkering, you could target it at different pollutants, like the mold that had been developed that ate oil to help clean up spills. She thought of the Cuyahoga river, known as the river that burns because of all the filth dumped into it. If anyone could do it, she could, and her other skills, making the plants grow more rapidly and larger meant she could go from seed to flowering plant in days. To a crop of them in weeks!

Catwoman's next words derailed her dreams of environmental nirvana.

"I saw Harley tonight."

"You did? Where? Is she all right?"

"When I was in Luigi's with Rick the Dick. She came in, made a large order for food to go, and then went out through the kitchen."

"Maybe she's binge eating again. She does that sometimes when she's depressed."

"About eighty plus meals, fifty bottles of wine, 45 gallons of both white and chocolate milk with dessert and ice cream? Three thousand plus prepared? That's one hell of a depression."

Ivy pondered, nodding slowly. "It sounds more like something that pasty faced whack job would come up with. But unless he's got a gang of fifty or more, the amounts don't make sense."

Catwoman paced, thinking. Then she walked to the phone. "Maven? Selina here. I want you to to check our contacts. See if there has been a disappearance of a number of people." She listened. "No Maven, not a couple or even a couple of dozen. Forty plus is the lower ceiling. At least half should be children, so look for family groups, orphans coming into town for day trips, schools sending a couple of bus loads. Let your imagination run wild." She listened again. "I know it's going to cost. Spend the money. Good. Thanks."

**An ominous cloud on the horizon.**

Businesses have a balanced need of your people having to access the data base for their jobs, but not being able to just wander around inside it. So security is tiered. There are always those who would look anyway if they had the chance, so each tier has it's own security passwords and access. So when every new person began working within Wayne Enterprise's many international subsidiaries, they were assigned a placeholder password which is of course changed by the user when they first log in.

An honest man might notice a file with an intriguing name, try to open it, then merely shrug and go back to what he was doing.

But the best way to rape a company of it's secrets was to have your man get a job there, poke around looking for intriguing files, and find the passwords.

Oracle worked on the really interesting hacking job someone had tried on Wayne Enterprises, looking at the program on her screen with the specific hacks tinted either blue, orange or red. Fifty of them in one go. That would have looked like a Denial of Service attack; where you merely overload the server, but in the farrago of passwords sent had been these gems. A standard system would catch most but not all.

She wasn't some system, though, and her own system was by no means standard.

"You know, you would probably be an interesting man to talk to if you hadn't decided to turn to a life of crime." She commented to herself as she worked. "Then again, you're probably one of those antisocial geeks who couldn't get a date if you went to the produce section of a food store - in Bahrain..." One of her other systems pinged, and she glanced at it. She had a scan running for more of the control streams the enemy drones had used, and she detected a ground station sending on that frequency. Hmn, the same old base as before. She broadened her search, checking cell and telephone signals from the location. Then she paused, eyes widening as that search came up with...

Checkmate. She had dealt with them briefly when she had first started. Government contract, compiling data on a Colombian drug lord. But when a team of what had looked like super villains had hit his home complex, using the data she had compiled, she had severed all contact. Catching a bad guy was one thing; killing about fifty people, albeit criminals smacked of a hit squad.

She checked her locator on Batman. Hadn't started patrol yet; still in his meek and mild persona at a charity dinner downtown. Alfred wasn't back in town yet; wouldn't be for a couple of days. She sighed, typing. He was not going to like this one bit...

**A little Gentle persuasion.**

Penguin looked up as the office door opened. Raven, the senior of his women staggered in, a large man jamming her arm up between her shoulder blades. "Sir, they didn't give a name." She gasped.

"My dear man, if there's a problem requiring my attention, this is not the best way to go about getting it. Release her at once!" As he stood, his finger started the recording system.

"Shut up." The man shoved her harshly aside. "You may not know me, Cobblepot. But we know you." Another man walked in, twins except for coloration.

Penguin stood up, "Do you. Then by all means, come in and introduce yourselves. " His tone frigid, then moderated. "Raven, get yourself seen to, my dear."

"Stay, bitch." The second man snarled.

Raven looked up, tears running from the pain. "Sorry, sir. They went postal before they even asked to see you."

"Breakage downstairs, my dear?"

Raven shook her head, clutching her dislocated shoulder. "No, but there are three others with serious firepower."

"Are there? My my." He looked them over. Very nice cloth, a pity they had to dress two gorillas in it. "Have my guests been permitted to leave?" He didn't wait for their reply. "You can't be Carmine's boys - they understand how to read clothing tags. And you're not GCPD -I know most of them, and they can't afford those fabrics... and would know they can't be washed in the hot cycle." He snapped his fingers. "You must be Federal. Identification, gentlemen, unless you want to apply for a line of credit..."

"Who we are don't matter." The lead thug nudged Raven's shoulder with a toe, drawing a whine of pain, "Your other bints can handle business while we talk." He threw a badge case across the desk.

Penguin's eyes narrowed. Checkmate, King's Knight. "I assume I'm closed for the moment?"

The second Agent shrugged. "Give the wrong answers, and you're closed for good. So let your customers keep drinking."

Penguin sighed. "Tsk. I miss the good old days... when G-Men knew how to make credible, _legal_ threats." He picked up the badge case, looking for the ID card. "Without probable cause you can't close me, for several reasons, gentlemen. Your occupational ancestors would have understood this."

The Knight merely looked at him."Cobblepott, we're authorized to put you in the morgue if it comes to that. Don't push it."

Penguin gave a derisive snort."Just the two of you? Please. And in any case, Waller would mount your heads on the wall, just to prove to the Senate she hadn't given the order. You're not here to kill me, Agent Smith. So quit with the posturing." He sat down, still holding the badge folder. "What do you want?"

The Knight gave a feral grin. "Just push and see, you fat old bird. Now are we talking? Or do you have to have an accident?"

Penguin flourished his umbrella, the muzzle of the .45 barrel obvious. "Do, please, try." No one moved for a moment, and the Penguin smiled. "Now, sit down, gentlemen, and let us see if you can be worthy of that appellation. Oh, and do please keep your hands where I can see them. Close the door, Raven, if you please, and have yourself seen to... and call me if there's trouble downstairs."

The associate grabbed Raven by the hair, jerking her to her knees. He drew his sidearm, He cocked it, setting it against her head. "Do I have to make our point, you fat old fart?"

Penguin looked calmly at the man, then picked up his phone, hitting a speed dial button. "Let's just get your boss on the phone, shall we?"

The Knight leaned across, stopping the call just as it started ringing. "We're your only option."

"Are you? Consider your position, gentlemen. Ms. Waller certainly knows I just tried to call her; you are being recorded at this moment - very nice close up of you taking a hostage, Agent whoever-you-are, to say nothing of threatening murder - and by now GCPD has been contacted, by my guests if no one else. Shall we put the hardware away, and play nicely?"

The Knight looks at his associate and jerked his head. "Fair enough. After all, the director knows why we're here." His assistant glared, then put the gun away.

"Now first perhaps you might - gently! - assist my employee to her feet?"

The Assistant literally yanked her to her feet. "Get out, bitch."

So much for manners... "Raven, go to Wren, and then get seen to, my dear. Twenty percent bonus for the week." Penguin looked at the Knight. "Your squire seems lacking in polish."

Raven nodded, gray from pain. The Knight merely sneered. "So you are going to answer my questions."

As she left the room, Penguin looked at his guests. "We could have avoided the last few moments merely by you simply asking them, my dear fellow, instead of sinking to threats. I did ask what you wanted...?"

"The choir." The Assistant snarled. "Who has them?"

Penguin looked confused. "Choir? What ever are you talking about?"

The Knight glared at him. "Look Cobblepott, someone kidnapped the entire Sistine Chapel Choir. If you want to walk on this, you will assist."

Penguin looked confused. "I wasn't aware they were missing -" He slapped his desk. "Ah, the Grand Theft Catering. The Joker no doubt has them. Harley Quinn robbed Luigi's tonight of over three thousand dollars worth of food."

"Where does he have them?"

"Why ask me? I don't associate with the man - far too unstable. He has ratholes all over this town, but I find it hard to believe he has room for - what? A hundred twenty? - children and their minders. I would be checking old warehouses, abandoned factories - he likes chemical plants, for some reason - and old hotels or office buildings." Penguin wished them luck; Batman had trouble finding Joker's hidey-holes.

"Fifty-three." the Assistant commented. "Thirty kids, twenty odd adults, and the Archbishop with his bodyguards."

"The choir and the ArchBishop? Odd - he's anything but religious... However, I cannot help you. But if I find any information, I will call your boss personally. Is there anything else?"

Neither looked happy, but the Knight walked over, hand held out imperiously, and Penguin returned his ID. After they had left, he wrote a note, ran copies off on his laser printer, collected a disc, stuffing them into a manila envelope as he hurried down to the small clinic in his club. Raven's arm was strapped tightly, and Owl, the field medic who worked as his doctor, shook her head. "Class two dislocation. I reduced it, but she needs a hospital."

"Take my car." Penguin looked at the sultry redhead with her hair in a pony tail, and her bowler perched atop her head. "Wren, I need for you to find someone, and deliver this."

"Sure thing, sir. Who gets it?"

"Batman." Her eyes widened. "Oh don't worry, just leave the envelope on the Batmobile and come back. No problem."

_Sure, no problem_. Wren thought sourly. She had used every connection her boss had just to find the damn car. An hour after getting her instructions she parked her Miata, looking at the Batmobile the same way a fish might watch a shark lazily swimming past. The damn car looked menacing without even moving. She sighed, climbed out, automatically hitting the alarm button on the fob as she walked toward it.

She knew the car had a system like a taser hooked into the sheet metal, so touching it would give you a nasty shock. She'd have to lean over, touching just the glass, hoping the system didn't connect to the metal of the wipers. She put on the Nytrile gloves just to be safe. She stopped, leaned forward-

A beefy hand came around, clamping on her throat, then she was spun around and lifted from her feet. It was the thug who had brutalized Raven, and he was smirking. "Knew the fat bastard was covering for someone." He reached for the envelope.

Like all of the Penguin's flappers, Wren was not just a pretty face. Doris Spanetti had applied for the job because Raven had seen her at the gym, sparring with three guys in her preferred combined style of Akkido and Wushu, and changing her name legally to Wren had helped her get passed the lousy first name. While the guy was still reaching, she dropped the envelope, caught his little finger, and pulled it sharply back into the back of his hand. He bellowed in agony, his grip loosening, and she bounced once, snapping a kick into his groin.

She yelped in pain as her instep slammed into his cup. _Bastardo_! He reached for his gun, and as he drew it she caught his wrist, using his own energy to throw him past her, letting go an instant before he face-planted against the Batmobile.

He shuddered as the system slammed him back quivering from the electrical charge. The boss hadn't been joking! She reached down, picking up the HK2000 he had dropped."_Figlio di puttana syphlitic!_" She screamed at him. Right then all of her Irish and her Sicilian ancestors, from her parents right on up the lines, were in perfect agreement. She stomped him in the groin, his body trying to curl up in agony, and she did it again savagely. "That's for Raven! See if your cup helps you with that!" She jacked the slide, and as he rolled over to face her she aimed it into his face. "Do I have to make my point, you _amante di pecore morte?_"

She heard a soft step behind her and spun - and her hand was caught in a vice like grip. Batman stood there, and she looked at the gun. He had caught the slide, slipping it back out of battery, rendering it useless. "Let go." He ordered. She let go, and with a quick movement of his hands, the gun was in pieces. Most of them he threw down the street, but the barrel he slipped into his belt. "You shoot him, it stops being self defense."

She watched him a gazelle wondering if she could outrun him. "Oh! Ah - I wasn't going to kill him..."

He gave her a slight smile. "Of course not. Is there a reason you're putting that envelope on my car?"

She limped over, picking up the manila envelope and offered it to him. "Mr. Cobblepot asked me to bring this to you. I was going to leave it on the windshield..."

"Obviously knew about the anti-tamper system."

"The boss warned me. Mr. Cobblepot was very specific about the dos and don'ts of your car."

"He would be. And him? He injured Raven?"

"Yes. She's on the way to Mercy hospital with a badly dislocated shoulder. Owl thinks she may have nerve damage, thanks to this motherless -"

"Lover of dead sheep? Son of a syphilitic whore?" He asked. She blushed. Momma would have washed her mouth out with soap if she had heard that when she had been alive...

"You're the new girl, Wren, right?"

"Yes, sir. At your service." She bowed with her eyes up as she had learned at the dojo.

He looked at the man who was now vomiting. "Very professionally done. I'll deal with him from this point on. Unless you want to kick him one more time?"

Wren grinned. "Oh, may I?" His kneecaps were totally available...

Batman caught her measuring glance. "As vindictive as you sound, I think not."

"I'll leave it to you, then. Mr. Cobblepot wanted me to relay to you, if I saw you, that Checkmate is looking for the Sistine Chapel Choir. This man is part of Checkmate. Carmine Angelo's men have more manners and polish."

"I had heard the choir was in town. Something happened to them?"

"I guess; Mr. Cobblepot didn't tell me."

He considered, turning the envelope in his hand. "I'll check my own sources. Tell him, thank you from me."

"I shall, sir. Thank you." She hurried to her car, and took off. At Batman's feet, the Checkmate agent moaned.

Batman picked him up. "A word to the wise." He dragged the agent to the Ford Crown Victoria, tossing him in through the window. "When you question someone in Gotham, make it legal and proper, or we'll have this discussion again." He reached in, took the cuffs from the agent's belt, handcuffed his right wrist to the steering wheel, and tossed the keys into the back seat. "I'm keeping the barrel for ballistics comparison. If it matches up to anything, I'll be in touch."

**La Vie est une Blague Joué par Dieu (Life is a Joke Played by God)**

Harley was pleasantly surprised to discover the Boyz, with the help of the choir, had gotten the servant's quarters ready for them. Everything that had been covered with sheets to stop the dust from settling was uncovered, and the linen cabinet had supplied more than enough linens and blankets. Since Old man Cobblepot had included children in his plans, there were dismantled bunk and trundle beds, enough that everyone had a place to sleep. Only five of the hostages, the Archbishop, choirmaster Richter, the organist and two of the soloists were in the gentleman's quarters, all in one room.

The two bodyguards were told that any attempt to break out would cause a lot of casualties, and were left down with the choir.

With everything else done, she had plans for the evening. She had found a case of Marquis de Montesquiou 1904 Vintage Armagnac. She knew Mr. J liked brandy sometimes, and it was the rarest in the wine cellar. So she had taken it to the Master bedroom, and left it open. Then she had gone to her own room. Having canvassed all of the clothing that had been meant for the female guests, she had chosen a cream silk nightgown than reached her toes, with belled sleeves, and a deep plunging decolletage. She found a matching robe, and put it on. She looked stunning. She padded down the hall, opening the door to the Master bedroom. By now he would have had a couple of glasses of the fine Armagnac and the sight of her in this would drive him mad.

She was greeted instead by snores. Mr. J had not had a couple of drinks, he had drained the damn bottle, and was asleep in an armchair in a drunken stupor. She wanted to scream in frustration, but instead merely got a blanket and pillow, made him more comfortable, and turned out the lights.

Standing in the hall, head against the door, she considered her options. There might be some Tiramisu left, and she knew there was chocolate milk and ice cream left over from dinner. Maybe a bowl of ice cream on a slab of cake and some hot chocolate? She walked down the hall to the stairway, and down to the first floor. She was almost to the kitchen when she stopped. She had heard something. A boy crying? She moved to the wall, pressing her ear to the wall. Yes, definitely someone crying. She moved along it, and felt the catch for the hidden servant's room that adjoined the sitting room.

Mr. J had explained that back in the day, before they had intercoms, there was one small room that linked through the air vents to the places where the important people would be most often. A trusted servant was usually assigned to sit in them, listening. Not for prurient interests, but because they might need something, like a drink or smoke. If they heard such a comment, they would nip down, grab it, and 'miraculously' appear with it as if they were psychic.

The door whispered open, and there was a small cry of dismay. She looked at the wide eyed nine year old boy staring at her in horror. What was he doing out of bed? He was watching her like a mouse that turned and found himself face to face with a boa constrictor, his hands coming up in futile defense. She touched her lips, then came into the room, closing the door behind her. "What are you doing out of bed?" She asked. Then she almost smacked herself on the forehead. Only one of the boys of the choir had shown any knowledge of English, and he had been older. This one merely flinched at the soft question.

Carefully, as if approaching a feral kitten, she walked closer, finally kneeling just out of reach. When she had stopped, making no threatening gestures, he suddenly leaped toward her, wrapping his arms around her body, burying his face against her bosom, whimpering and muttering in a language she had never heard. If she had known any Latin or Italian, she would have asked again, but the boy was far too distraught to have answered. She finally ended up merely hugging the boy, rocking him gently, crooning like a mother trying to calm a child awakened from a nightmare. That more than anything else seemed to do the trick. He slowly relaxed, and she was holding a limp child against her.

"János?" A voice, the Archbishop. What, was everyone wandering the damn halls tonight? She pulled back, the boy resisting. But she was able to break free and move to the concealed door as she motioned with one hand for the boy to stay there and keep silent. She opened it a sliver, and saw the Archbishop wearing his slacks and shirt, looking in the adjoining room "János, Dove sei?" he whispered. She stepped out, caught the man by the arm, and raised her hand to gesture for silence. The Archbishop was shocked, but nodded, allowing her to draw him into the servant's room.

The boy looked up, gave a glad cry, and leaped into the man's arms, babbling in what might have been the same language. Harley merely stood, waiting.

"This is János Halvaik. He is an orphan from Budapest. One of the choir leaders came to my room to tell me that one of your guards took him out half an hour ago." Snipes told her in a hoarse whisper, his eyes reproachful.

"No one told anyone to take any of the kids anywhere. Mr. J is dead to the world, and I was getting dressed." Harley retorted, also whispering. "How did he even find this room to hide in?"

"The orphanage where he lives is an old nobleman's house. He knew there would be such a room."

Before Harley could reply there was a voice in the sitting room. "Where are you, you little bitch? "Someone snarled. Her eyes snapped up to the vent. "When I catch you, I'm going to have my fun then I'm going to cut your little fucking throat!"

"Carley." Another voice entered the room. "Leave it man. We'll take care of it later."

"Oh yeah, Philly? You think the blonde bimbo is going to let me have my fun with the little-"

"I told you and told you, Carley. When you're on a job, keep your dick in your pants. We've lost four jobs thanks to you getting it wet, then killing the kids to keep them quiet. If I hadn't covered for you-"

"But he is so choice, man."

"Just get back on patrol. If I see him, he'll be in the waste treatment plant. And that is the end of it, or so help me god I'll cut your dick off myself!"

The archbishop turned to berate her, but flinched back at the look on Harley's face. She looked at him for a long moment. "Stay here, keep him safe." She strode over to the door, opening it, and closing it before heading for the stairs. She had reached the base when one of the guys she had hired came in through the opposite hall.

"Oh, Miss Quinn. Didn't know you were still up."

"Just a few loose ends. You're..."

"Phil Mossberg. Philly to my friends." If you didn't know he'd been discussing murdering a kid just moments ago, you would have thought him a nice man.

"You should have a partner on shift. I set it up that way."

"Carley Watts. We've split patrolling the place instead of moving in pairs...if that's all right, Ma'am." He was nervous. As he should be, with what she knew. She merely nodded, and went up the stairs to the second floor. The Boyz were in two suites, one on either side of where the one holding the senior hostages. Great, something else I'm going to have to deal with. She thought sourly. She knocked.

Rocco opened the door. He was bare to the waist, showing a chest rippling with muscles, and almost as hairy as a gorilla. He had some papers in his hand, and looked confused. "Ma'am?"

"I need you and two men you trust."

He considered. "Max and Solly both obey orders, I've worked with them before."

She explained why. Rocco's face flushed, and she heard his knuckles crack as he closed his fists. "Get them. And get some rope."

"On it, ma'am." She walked down to her room, Put on her belt with the holster and gun, then went back down the stairs. The other guard looked up, confused.

"Just getting a snack." She told him storming past. She looked back, sure he wasn't about to head down this hallway, and opened the servant's room door. She motioned the Archbishop and the boy out, and took them with her to the kitchen. "Park it." She motioned toward the small table in the corner. "Ask János if he'd like something. Some cake? Hot chocolate?"

The archbishop leaned over, murmuring to the boy. "He would like some chocolate, please. As would I."

She took out a one quart saucepan."Coming right up." She went to the refrigerator, filled the pan, then set it on the burner set at simmer. She ignored everything else. The sudden noise from the hall she had entered, including what sounded like someone being beaten to a pulp as she watched the liquid. She moved to the cupboard, taking out three tea cups, saucers and a tray. Then she poured the now steaming liquid into the cups, setting them before the others.

Rocco came down the hall. Carley looked as if he'd fallen down several flights of stairs enroute, eyes wild above a gag. Solly and Max were dragging Mossberg, who didn't look as badly beaten, but they had obviously done a professional job on him too. "Where to, ma'am?"

"Just a second." Harley leaned into the kitchen and beckoned the Archbishop and the boy over. When the boy saw Carley and Phil, his eyes widened and he hid behind the archbishop, saying something in his own tongue. The archbishop patted the boy and adressed Harley. "He says that these are the ones who hurt him."

Harley nodded. "Tell him they will never hurt him again." She glared at the two frightened men. "You are so fucking dead, I don't even know why you you bothered being born." Then she waved at Rocco. "Put them in the pump house. Have two men up to replace them on their shift, and another to watch them. Keep them gagged." She pulled the remains of the Tiramisu out, cutting a slice for herself, and at their nods, for the boy and the Archbishop. "We'll wait 'til Mr. J wakes up to deal with them."

"Deal with them." Snipes commented after they had been dragged away. "How will you deal with them, Ms Quinn?"

She looked at the boy, who had devastated his Tiramisu and was chasing the crumbs. "Padre, we are not nice people, but one thing I hate is a child molester. If Carley was sent to Blackgate, they'd have to keep him in protective custody in solitary just to keep him alive. If it were you or the other adults Mr. J had kidnapped, I would feel God was merely calling you home. But him?" She motioned toward the boy. "He hasn't lived long enough to really sin, if you get my point. I will not let any of our men hurt your boys. So they will die."

The boy looked at his cup, then at her hopefully. She poured the last of the hot chocolate for him, earning a bright smile. "Tell him one of my men will take him back to his room. No one will disturb him again. You have my word."

But when the Archbishop told him the boy looked shocked, blurting out first in his own language, then in broken Italian. The archbishop looked at him for a long moment."Please, Ms Quinn. He wishes to stay with you."

She sighed. "Fine. Stay here." She went through to the wine cellar snagging a second bottle of the fine brandy, then went back to the kitchen. She escorted the Archbishop to his room, reaming the guard who should have been watching them, then with a sigh, took János back to her own room. Solly delivered enough bedding that she could build her own pallet beside the huge bed she had expected to use as a consolation prize, and she had shoved the boy into instead.

She poured some of the brandy, and she noticed that the boy watched her as if expecting worse. She sat for a long time, merely sipping the brandy. After the second drink, she decided there was too much that had to be done the next day, so she smiled at the boy, walked across to turn off the lights, then slid into the pile of comforters that were not even close to comfortable as the bed she had given up.

Sometime during the night, she felt someone slide up against her back. The boy was breathing as softly as he could, but she heard a murmur against her back. "Mama."He whispered. She rolled over gently, brushing his hair, then wrapped her arms around him before she drifted off to sleep, to dream of her baby brother, as he was before the bad things happened.


End file.
